I don't know about you, but I dislike missionaries.
It's not just that their sex position is a little bit boring. It's that they all seem to work for the busy god, in one way, shape, or form. Seems to me their God doesn't need the leg work.
Upon hearing today that one of our intrepid American ambassadors had been killed by a faction that ascribes to the busy god, I began to re-think my lack of personal missionary zeal.
Maybe it's time for me to knock on some doors.
If you've just arrived here, mistakenly thinking I'm the newest voice for teachers' rights, you may want to biff off now. What I really am is a High Priestess for the Sacred Worship of Vulture.
Have you had enough of these religions where people kill other people and think it's a holy thing? Come join us in the Sacred Worship of Vulture!
I'll dispel one myth, and you'll be ready to pledge.
Vultures do not kill anything that isn't already 90 percent dead. And they much prefer their food to be really, really dead. In my religion, you will never hear anyone say, "I killed that sinner because Vulture told me to." Vultures don't kill! And they don't want followers who do!
You could stand on a roadside and insult a vulture until you are blue in the face, and it will not be offended. Vultures are called nasty names all the time. Does it bother them? Nope. They are not jealous or wrathful or easily angered. If you frighten them, the worst they will do is barf.
You'll never see a vulture hoist a bloody standard and sally into the fray. Very peaceful bird. They don't even squawk. (Decibel, please take note and try to be more holy.)
All that remains, then, is to ascertain that Vulture's prophet (that being me) can also be insulted without demanding revenge on the disrespectful.
Trust me, unbeliever, I can be insulted. Grievously. I can be dismissed with a disdainful flick of the wrist, lied to bare-faced, trash-talked and mocked. You could fling a rotten vegetable in my direction and say mean things about my mama. And still I would not ask anyone to deck you on my behalf. Nor would I deck you myself.
The High Priestess of Vulture is basically wimpy, like her deity, and expects you to be wimpy too.
There may be a few individuals in this big, wide world who deem me capable of extreme foul play. Don't believe it for a millisecond. All followers of the Sacred Worship of Vulture are forgiving of insult and unwilling to do harm.
Join now! Needless to say, there are no dietary restrictions. As for clothing, we have no restrictions down to, and including, your pink skin. No sexual position or inclination is disallowed, so long as no one gets hurt and the furniture remains free of stain. The only commandment is to harm none.
Church of Vulture: Don't kill. Wait for it to die. Don't hate the infidel who calls you names. Give that person a mirror. Soar over it all, exercising patience and embracing solitude.
Time to pass the plate. Dig deep. The parrot vet is costly!
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Sunday, September 09, 2012
Of Poppets and Sea Glass
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," coming to you in chapters today:
CHAPTER 1
BEACH GLASS BINGO
Earlier in this epic year, I began collecting beach glass in earnest. Before 2012, I was a casual beachcomber, but lately I've been trying to bond with the dark Atlantic. Sea glass seemed to be a good way to do it, because it's very special: the sharp edges have been worn dull, and the glass is frosted -- consequence of rolling around in the surf for who knows how long.
I dredged up some old jars from the ancestral lands in Appalachia and began a very odd project: filling glass jars from the mountains with sea glass from the beach. There's a hedge-witchiness to this that appeals to me.
Then I discovered something. The jars were filling up (well, not the "good stuff" jar, but the others). What would I do when I had the jars filled? Would I still go? What would be the point? Greed to have more and more sea glass? Not how I roll.
Turns out there's an artist in Philadelphia named Isaiah Zagar. He does immense mosaics using discarded glass and mirrors. If you visit Philly and walk along South Street, you will see Isaiah's work both large and small, including his amazing, faerie-friendly, bored-god-approved artistic playground, the Magic Gardens.
EXHIBIT A: THE MAGIC GARDENS, PHILADELPHIA (Photos don't do it justice.)
I spoke to Isaiah's staff, and they spoke to him and the upshot is that most of my beach glass will go into mosaics in Philadelphia! I took in a big bag on Saturday. Spare and I walked down to the Magic Gardens and handed it over. If he likes it, I'll give him more.
I am living the Pagan Purpose-Driven Life.
CHAPTER TWO
A POPPET FOR DECIBEL
You three readers of mine have been very generous helping me out with Decibel the Parrot's astronomical bird bills since she hurt her wing earlier in the summer. The good news is that, so long as she doesn't peck at it, her "ouch" is mending nicely. She's in a parrot collar that we call the "cone of shame." (I posted a picture a week or so ago.)
In August I went to a Pagan Pride event in central Jersey, and there I met the amazing and fabulous Mrs.B. She has a blog on Patheos.com where she writes about raising children by good Pagan principles.
On the day of the Pride event, Mrs. B gave a talk about poppets. Maybe you've heard the word, but the long and short is that the idea of sticking pins in a doll in hopes of hurting someone from afar is mostly just a stupid thing made up for t.v. On the other hand, people have been using poppets for centuries. Poppets are small dolls filled with stuffing and herbs. They can be decorated in any way. If you have a poppet, it will hold some of your energy within it and provide you with healing, strength, and safety when you need it.
Mrs. B makes and sells poppets, so I commissioned one for Decibel. It arrived over the weekend and is now near, but not too near, Decibel's cage.
I'll let Mrs. B describe this magickal dolly:
"This custom made Voodude (tm) was created for healing and for added protection. It's stuffed with poly fil stuffing and contains herbs of healing, including lavender, plantain, eucalyptus, bay, and comfrey.
"The wings have been stitched with the following runes: Ken (healing), Thorn (protection), Ur (protection, health, and strength), and Rad (safety during traveling).
"This poppet has also been infused with Reiki healing and serves as a proxy for distant Reiki healings."
Mrs. B has never met Decibel, but nonetheless the poppet is a ringer for the bird. It's like having two Decibels, only one of them doesn't mouth off all the time.
EXHIBIT B: DECIBEL'S POPPET
If you want a poppet, or an herbal infusion for an ailment, you should visit Mrs. B's store. And for those of you who haven't gotten to meet her in person, let me just say that Mrs. B is as wonderful as her blog would lead you to believe!
Here's the link to her store:
http://www.patheos.com/blogs/confessionsofapagansoccermom/shop/
Catch you next time on the Big, Broad, Flexible Portal of the Bored Gods!
CHAPTER 1
BEACH GLASS BINGO
Earlier in this epic year, I began collecting beach glass in earnest. Before 2012, I was a casual beachcomber, but lately I've been trying to bond with the dark Atlantic. Sea glass seemed to be a good way to do it, because it's very special: the sharp edges have been worn dull, and the glass is frosted -- consequence of rolling around in the surf for who knows how long.
I dredged up some old jars from the ancestral lands in Appalachia and began a very odd project: filling glass jars from the mountains with sea glass from the beach. There's a hedge-witchiness to this that appeals to me.
Then I discovered something. The jars were filling up (well, not the "good stuff" jar, but the others). What would I do when I had the jars filled? Would I still go? What would be the point? Greed to have more and more sea glass? Not how I roll.
Turns out there's an artist in Philadelphia named Isaiah Zagar. He does immense mosaics using discarded glass and mirrors. If you visit Philly and walk along South Street, you will see Isaiah's work both large and small, including his amazing, faerie-friendly, bored-god-approved artistic playground, the Magic Gardens.
EXHIBIT A: THE MAGIC GARDENS, PHILADELPHIA (Photos don't do it justice.)
I spoke to Isaiah's staff, and they spoke to him and the upshot is that most of my beach glass will go into mosaics in Philadelphia! I took in a big bag on Saturday. Spare and I walked down to the Magic Gardens and handed it over. If he likes it, I'll give him more.
I am living the Pagan Purpose-Driven Life.
CHAPTER TWO
A POPPET FOR DECIBEL
You three readers of mine have been very generous helping me out with Decibel the Parrot's astronomical bird bills since she hurt her wing earlier in the summer. The good news is that, so long as she doesn't peck at it, her "ouch" is mending nicely. She's in a parrot collar that we call the "cone of shame." (I posted a picture a week or so ago.)
In August I went to a Pagan Pride event in central Jersey, and there I met the amazing and fabulous Mrs.B. She has a blog on Patheos.com where she writes about raising children by good Pagan principles.
On the day of the Pride event, Mrs. B gave a talk about poppets. Maybe you've heard the word, but the long and short is that the idea of sticking pins in a doll in hopes of hurting someone from afar is mostly just a stupid thing made up for t.v. On the other hand, people have been using poppets for centuries. Poppets are small dolls filled with stuffing and herbs. They can be decorated in any way. If you have a poppet, it will hold some of your energy within it and provide you with healing, strength, and safety when you need it.
Mrs. B makes and sells poppets, so I commissioned one for Decibel. It arrived over the weekend and is now near, but not too near, Decibel's cage.
I'll let Mrs. B describe this magickal dolly:
"This custom made Voodude (tm) was created for healing and for added protection. It's stuffed with poly fil stuffing and contains herbs of healing, including lavender, plantain, eucalyptus, bay, and comfrey.
"The wings have been stitched with the following runes: Ken (healing), Thorn (protection), Ur (protection, health, and strength), and Rad (safety during traveling).
"This poppet has also been infused with Reiki healing and serves as a proxy for distant Reiki healings."
Mrs. B has never met Decibel, but nonetheless the poppet is a ringer for the bird. It's like having two Decibels, only one of them doesn't mouth off all the time.
EXHIBIT B: DECIBEL'S POPPET
If you want a poppet, or an herbal infusion for an ailment, you should visit Mrs. B's store. And for those of you who haven't gotten to meet her in person, let me just say that Mrs. B is as wonderful as her blog would lead you to believe!
Here's the link to her store:
http://www.patheos.com/blogs/confessionsofapagansoccermom/shop/
Catch you next time on the Big, Broad, Flexible Portal of the Bored Gods!
Wednesday, September 05, 2012
The Purpose-Driven Blog
Just now I opened my email, and there was a note from an educator, wanting to post something about guidance counselors on my blog.
Egads! Am I drifting off topic, or what?
This blog is for Holy Higher-Ups who don't get a podium at national political conventions! It's for the gods who got sent packing by "In God We Trust." Pagan, Neo-Pagan, Animist, Psychic, Nature, even the Flying Spaghetti Monster and Elvis! Enough about teaching, already! Dull topic, unless you're Socrates. Or Henry Higgins.
COMPLETE POWER FAILURE
Last night we had severe weather in the area, remnants of Hurricane Isaac. The storms and heavy rain rumbled through all day and into the evening.
It wasn't even raining outside, but all of a sudden our whole neighborhood lost power. My over-lit, over-air conditioned house was plunged into blackness. (I admit I could do a better job of energy conservation. I am working on it.)
When I say black, I mean nearly total, blinding black. I was standing in the kitchen, and ... blip! Dark.
My daughter The Spare teases me about the way I buy candles. Send me into a store, and if you want to find me, look for the candles. I get most of my candles at the thrift store, but never mind the source of purchase: I buy and burn a lot of candles.
Therefore, in the total darkness of an electricity-free kitchen, I was able to grope my way to the matches and to a pair of tapers in about 30 seconds. Less than a minute later, the shrine candle came into use. And if I had been diligent in my praise and worship of Queen Brighid the Bright, there never would have been darkness to begin with! Her altar was between candles, and I forgot to light a new one.
Public service reminder to followers of the bored gods: Keep your altar candles up to date. Don't burn them where you can't see them, but do kindle that fire. One of these days, all the fancy power plants might be rendered useless, and in that case you will like having fire at your fingertips.
Speaking of fingertips, my Decibel is still having trouble with her wing. She has adapted to the bird collar, but she's not as sassy as usual, by far. I may need to give her a whole new name. How do you like "Crackers?"
Egads! Am I drifting off topic, or what?
This blog is for Holy Higher-Ups who don't get a podium at national political conventions! It's for the gods who got sent packing by "In God We Trust." Pagan, Neo-Pagan, Animist, Psychic, Nature, even the Flying Spaghetti Monster and Elvis! Enough about teaching, already! Dull topic, unless you're Socrates. Or Henry Higgins.
COMPLETE POWER FAILURE
Last night we had severe weather in the area, remnants of Hurricane Isaac. The storms and heavy rain rumbled through all day and into the evening.
It wasn't even raining outside, but all of a sudden our whole neighborhood lost power. My over-lit, over-air conditioned house was plunged into blackness. (I admit I could do a better job of energy conservation. I am working on it.)
When I say black, I mean nearly total, blinding black. I was standing in the kitchen, and ... blip! Dark.
My daughter The Spare teases me about the way I buy candles. Send me into a store, and if you want to find me, look for the candles. I get most of my candles at the thrift store, but never mind the source of purchase: I buy and burn a lot of candles.
Therefore, in the total darkness of an electricity-free kitchen, I was able to grope my way to the matches and to a pair of tapers in about 30 seconds. Less than a minute later, the shrine candle came into use. And if I had been diligent in my praise and worship of Queen Brighid the Bright, there never would have been darkness to begin with! Her altar was between candles, and I forgot to light a new one.
Public service reminder to followers of the bored gods: Keep your altar candles up to date. Don't burn them where you can't see them, but do kindle that fire. One of these days, all the fancy power plants might be rendered useless, and in that case you will like having fire at your fingertips.
Speaking of fingertips, my Decibel is still having trouble with her wing. She has adapted to the bird collar, but she's not as sassy as usual, by far. I may need to give her a whole new name. How do you like "Crackers?"
Monday, September 03, 2012
Labor Day 2012
I go back to teaching tomorrow, but I am bound and determined not to martyr myself to my job anymore. Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," Labor Day 2012!
The Labor Movement was begun to combat extremely long working hours, bad working conditions, and child labor. Out of the moral struggles of working people came the 40 hour work week, regulations for safety and health, and revised ages for child labor. Anyone who put in a 40 hour week had to be given health care benefits and a pension plan (most everyone, that is). Workers could bargain, i.e. negotiate in their best interests.
Corporate interests have found sneaky ways around all of these provisions in almost every profession except public sector employment. Take it from me, the public sector is also under siege.
Let's look at what corporate America has done to undermine workers' rights:
1. Instead of working people too long, they work them not long enough. If you hire someone at 28 hours a week, you don't have to pay them benefits.
2. Instead of putting people on the payroll, they hire "contract workers" who have no benefits beyond what they, as contractors, can afford to buy.
3. Cheap child labor produces goods abroad, where countries set their own labor laws.
4. Blue collar work has been sent to foreign countries where laborers are subjected to long hours and dangerous working conditions.
5. Coal mining now employs fewer people who use machinery to knock down the mountains, resulting in widespread environmental destruction.
6. Renewable energy sources will not flourish until the finite fossil fuels are exhausted, leaving environmental destruction behind.
Basically, business tycoons have figured out how to bust unions. First they moved factories from one part of the country to another, then they just sent the factories abroad.
Would you be willing to pay more for goods if everything was produced in America, by workers who were covered for health and pension benefits? I will answer that question for you. Of course you would, because you would be one of those workers who had health and pension benefits.
But then some people wouldn't get richer than God at your expense.
I petition the bored gods to afflict the comfortable and to restore American workers' rights. Now, there's a job for some really mighty deities!
The Labor Movement was begun to combat extremely long working hours, bad working conditions, and child labor. Out of the moral struggles of working people came the 40 hour work week, regulations for safety and health, and revised ages for child labor. Anyone who put in a 40 hour week had to be given health care benefits and a pension plan (most everyone, that is). Workers could bargain, i.e. negotiate in their best interests.
Corporate interests have found sneaky ways around all of these provisions in almost every profession except public sector employment. Take it from me, the public sector is also under siege.
Let's look at what corporate America has done to undermine workers' rights:
1. Instead of working people too long, they work them not long enough. If you hire someone at 28 hours a week, you don't have to pay them benefits.
2. Instead of putting people on the payroll, they hire "contract workers" who have no benefits beyond what they, as contractors, can afford to buy.
3. Cheap child labor produces goods abroad, where countries set their own labor laws.
4. Blue collar work has been sent to foreign countries where laborers are subjected to long hours and dangerous working conditions.
5. Coal mining now employs fewer people who use machinery to knock down the mountains, resulting in widespread environmental destruction.
6. Renewable energy sources will not flourish until the finite fossil fuels are exhausted, leaving environmental destruction behind.
Basically, business tycoons have figured out how to bust unions. First they moved factories from one part of the country to another, then they just sent the factories abroad.
Would you be willing to pay more for goods if everything was produced in America, by workers who were covered for health and pension benefits? I will answer that question for you. Of course you would, because you would be one of those workers who had health and pension benefits.
But then some people wouldn't get richer than God at your expense.
I petition the bored gods to afflict the comfortable and to restore American workers' rights. Now, there's a job for some really mighty deities!
Saturday, September 01, 2012
They Shoot Horses, Don't They?
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Well, what do you know? The door blew open around lunchtime, and in breezed The Spare, home from college to see ... her cat. Yeah, the cat. She misses the cat. How about that?
Today's sermon: Weed Out the Weak
As a public employee, I can understand having to pay more of my health care and pension costs. Notwithstanding what you have heard about school teachers, we are also taxpayers, and we know that times are hard everywhere. We are willing to do our part.
This differentiates us from the one percent, who aren't budging a fat inch.
I am really disturbed, however, by an article I read yesterday in New Jersey Magazine about a new "report card" system about to be launched upon teachers. This system, under the guise of making tenured teachers more accountable, actually kills tenure completely. If a teacher gets an unsatisfactory rating two consecutive years, he or she can be fired.
The tenure system dates from an era when teachers were among the few professionals who earned college degrees. It is, pure and simple, job protection. And while some few teachers cruise through doing nothing (in my school I would say we have one out of 50 who does this), most teachers are dedicated and hard-working, and happy about that job security.
I have so many concerns about this "report card" that I can hardly enumerate them. But the biggest one I see is very disturbing. I already see it happening in other industries.
The concern is this: What happens to a person whose abilities erode due to age or infirmity? Maybe I'm worried about the "shoot the old horse, he eats too much" problem because I will be getting old and infirm while teaching. I have seen older teachers wilt under the pressure and stress of the job. Not all the time, but sometimes. Are we going to reward a person for a lifetime of public service by firing him or her due to infirmity, absenteeism, or just plain age? Is it a coincidence that these older teachers are the best paid?
It says in the article that teacher evaluations, formal and informal, will be done on IPads. Yo, they've built a better clipboard!
Teachers, who are already buried in paperwork, will have to be proactive in creating records of their effectiveness. I would love to hear from anyone who will help me create the protocol for these records.
The following is a true story:
Some of you stalwart readers might remember Mr. Bigwand, my night school teacher who had perfected the gift of gab to a standard set only by the worst broken records. Bigwand told this story at least four times during the course of my long year under hisinterminable monologues tutelage.
One of Bigwand's female colleagues received an unsatisfactory evaluation for a school year. In her rebuttal, she wrote, "I am sorry I was ineffective this year. Perhaps it was due to breast cancer surgery and a long recuperation that included radiation and chemotherapy. I'll try not to ever get sick again."
There you have it. Teachers will be fired for being sick (thus saving high health care costs for their districts) and being old (thus saving high salaries for their districts). All other teachers will take evasive action and live in a constant state of anxiety.
A constant state of anxiety. Wow. Why should teachers be any different from any other workers in this country?
No reason, except we're entrusted with your kid. Anxiety does not improve effectiveness, even in open warfare.
Today's sermon: Weed Out the Weak
As a public employee, I can understand having to pay more of my health care and pension costs. Notwithstanding what you have heard about school teachers, we are also taxpayers, and we know that times are hard everywhere. We are willing to do our part.
This differentiates us from the one percent, who aren't budging a fat inch.
I am really disturbed, however, by an article I read yesterday in New Jersey Magazine about a new "report card" system about to be launched upon teachers. This system, under the guise of making tenured teachers more accountable, actually kills tenure completely. If a teacher gets an unsatisfactory rating two consecutive years, he or she can be fired.
The tenure system dates from an era when teachers were among the few professionals who earned college degrees. It is, pure and simple, job protection. And while some few teachers cruise through doing nothing (in my school I would say we have one out of 50 who does this), most teachers are dedicated and hard-working, and happy about that job security.
I have so many concerns about this "report card" that I can hardly enumerate them. But the biggest one I see is very disturbing. I already see it happening in other industries.
The concern is this: What happens to a person whose abilities erode due to age or infirmity? Maybe I'm worried about the "shoot the old horse, he eats too much" problem because I will be getting old and infirm while teaching. I have seen older teachers wilt under the pressure and stress of the job. Not all the time, but sometimes. Are we going to reward a person for a lifetime of public service by firing him or her due to infirmity, absenteeism, or just plain age? Is it a coincidence that these older teachers are the best paid?
It says in the article that teacher evaluations, formal and informal, will be done on IPads. Yo, they've built a better clipboard!
Teachers, who are already buried in paperwork, will have to be proactive in creating records of their effectiveness. I would love to hear from anyone who will help me create the protocol for these records.
The following is a true story:
Some of you stalwart readers might remember Mr. Bigwand, my night school teacher who had perfected the gift of gab to a standard set only by the worst broken records. Bigwand told this story at least four times during the course of my long year under his
One of Bigwand's female colleagues received an unsatisfactory evaluation for a school year. In her rebuttal, she wrote, "I am sorry I was ineffective this year. Perhaps it was due to breast cancer surgery and a long recuperation that included radiation and chemotherapy. I'll try not to ever get sick again."
There you have it. Teachers will be fired for being sick (thus saving high health care costs for their districts) and being old (thus saving high salaries for their districts). All other teachers will take evasive action and live in a constant state of anxiety.
A constant state of anxiety. Wow. Why should teachers be any different from any other workers in this country?
No reason, except we're entrusted with your kid. Anxiety does not improve effectiveness, even in open warfare.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
The Opportunity I Didn't Have
What was life like for you when you graduated from college? Did you float effortlessly into the job of your dreams? Really? Then here, for you, are my friends Milk and Cheese, to act upon my jealousy.
HEY YOU WITH THE DREAM JOB! KISS MY DAIRY PRODUCTS GONE BAD!
I had to go right to work in a job I hated, because the economy sucked, I majored in creative writing, and going home to my bipolar mother was not an option.
It's not that I have had a bad life, but sometimes I can't help but wonder about the roads not taken. I was not adventurous. I'm neither an astronaut or a Type A. So I settled. Moved with caution.
This spring my daughter The Heir graduated from college with a double major in media and fine arts. Talk about employment potential! She's a painter, for the love of fruit flies! Where can a person like that get work in this economy?
Back in June, The Heir met a lady who said there are full-time jobs at the IRS Call Center in Philly. Heir looked me in the eye and said, "Mom, I just can't do that. It will ruin me."
I agreed.
Heir embarked upon a quest to live out her dream. Within a few weeks she had helped two artists with major projects, and then she got an internship with a married couple who are highly sought after sculptors in these parts. The internship started out free, but when they saw Heir's bustle and her ability to organize (unparalleled in people her age), they hired her part time, minimum wage.
Heir has also rented a studio in a large arts collective, where she has resumed painting. She says she is learning a great deal about sculpture (and home renovation, another useful skill) by working with the sculptors. In fact, she tells me she has learned more in three months than she did in four years of expensive college. She is in the early stages of living her dream.
But dreams do not come to us in real life without dangers. Do they?
The sculpture studio is in Germantown. I took Heir there the other day in the car. (She otherwise rides mass transportation.) The neighborhood is just the next tick up from a slum. The sculptors bought an old silver polishing factory for a song and are fixing it up. My heart almost stood still when I saw the area outside ... and then the cavernous interior of the building, which ... kid you not ... reminded me of Frankenstein's experiment room. But there were beautiful sculptures everywhere, in various stages of completion. Heir showed me the ones she helped with. She showed me the tool room that she had completely organized. She showed me the places where her advice had been taken. She was so proud.
Heir is actively discouraging any parental visits to her painting studio. It is in Kensington, a neighborhood that is beginning to gentrify but still has a large and active criminal element. The studio is in a huge factory that has been slightly renovated to give artists spaces where they can work. Heir is happy that her space has a ... ready? A space heater.
When I drove Heir to Germantown, she brought her bike in the back seat, so she can avoid the mass transportation that is scary and costly. But the street she's on in Germantown consists of trolley tracks and cobblestone. Little tiny patch of pavement between the two.
What, me worry? Can you hear my teeth gnashing from where you're reading this?
Here's the bottom line, friends. And I may very well have to re-visit this post from time to time, or even in a dire emergency.
I would rather my beautiful young daughter be taking risks in marginal neighborhoods, biking badly-paved streets, making little or no money, than to see her slip into a 9-to-5 that she hates. I'd rather her take chances than sit in her room here at Chateau Johnson, fearing the outside world.
Go forth boldly, Heir. Seize the opportunity I never had. I'm not bipolar. I love you. Bunk here as long as you wish. Better sorry than safe.
HEY YOU WITH THE DREAM JOB! KISS MY DAIRY PRODUCTS GONE BAD!
I had to go right to work in a job I hated, because the economy sucked, I majored in creative writing, and going home to my bipolar mother was not an option.
It's not that I have had a bad life, but sometimes I can't help but wonder about the roads not taken. I was not adventurous. I'm neither an astronaut or a Type A. So I settled. Moved with caution.
This spring my daughter The Heir graduated from college with a double major in media and fine arts. Talk about employment potential! She's a painter, for the love of fruit flies! Where can a person like that get work in this economy?
Back in June, The Heir met a lady who said there are full-time jobs at the IRS Call Center in Philly. Heir looked me in the eye and said, "Mom, I just can't do that. It will ruin me."
I agreed.
Heir embarked upon a quest to live out her dream. Within a few weeks she had helped two artists with major projects, and then she got an internship with a married couple who are highly sought after sculptors in these parts. The internship started out free, but when they saw Heir's bustle and her ability to organize (unparalleled in people her age), they hired her part time, minimum wage.
Heir has also rented a studio in a large arts collective, where she has resumed painting. She says she is learning a great deal about sculpture (and home renovation, another useful skill) by working with the sculptors. In fact, she tells me she has learned more in three months than she did in four years of expensive college. She is in the early stages of living her dream.
But dreams do not come to us in real life without dangers. Do they?
The sculpture studio is in Germantown. I took Heir there the other day in the car. (She otherwise rides mass transportation.) The neighborhood is just the next tick up from a slum. The sculptors bought an old silver polishing factory for a song and are fixing it up. My heart almost stood still when I saw the area outside ... and then the cavernous interior of the building, which ... kid you not ... reminded me of Frankenstein's experiment room. But there were beautiful sculptures everywhere, in various stages of completion. Heir showed me the ones she helped with. She showed me the tool room that she had completely organized. She showed me the places where her advice had been taken. She was so proud.
Heir is actively discouraging any parental visits to her painting studio. It is in Kensington, a neighborhood that is beginning to gentrify but still has a large and active criminal element. The studio is in a huge factory that has been slightly renovated to give artists spaces where they can work. Heir is happy that her space has a ... ready? A space heater.
When I drove Heir to Germantown, she brought her bike in the back seat, so she can avoid the mass transportation that is scary and costly. But the street she's on in Germantown consists of trolley tracks and cobblestone. Little tiny patch of pavement between the two.
What, me worry? Can you hear my teeth gnashing from where you're reading this?
Here's the bottom line, friends. And I may very well have to re-visit this post from time to time, or even in a dire emergency.
I would rather my beautiful young daughter be taking risks in marginal neighborhoods, biking badly-paved streets, making little or no money, than to see her slip into a 9-to-5 that she hates. I'd rather her take chances than sit in her room here at Chateau Johnson, fearing the outside world.
Go forth boldly, Heir. Seize the opportunity I never had. I'm not bipolar. I love you. Bunk here as long as you wish. Better sorry than safe.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Can You Be an Astronaut?
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we really and truly are mourning the passing of Neil Armstrong (not Neil Young). I'd better go and gather some rosebuds, because time is really flying.
In my sermon today I will get inside Neil's head, and the heads of those who flew similar missions.
I guess it was probably some time in 2009 that I found myself in some doctor's office, waiting for either the Heir or the Spare ... and waiting ... and waiting. I was reading a magazine (can't remember which one, but this is a blog, so I don't have to be specific). The magazine had a long article in it about the psychology of astronauts.
It stands to reason that astronauts have to be in tip-top physical shape. But what's going on in their heads?
Turns out these folks are not Type A personalities. They are not hot dogs, or show-offs, or especially daredevils. The Apollo astronauts (and all other space travelers) were chosen because their minds were very, very bland.
Of course you want astronauts who won't panic if the space ship starts to come apart piece by piece. So these men were chosen for their ultimate grace under pressure. They had to have the right stuff mentally, which translated to very, very calm, very, very rational psyches.
After the first spate of daredevils, Houston did vast psychological testing on astronaut candidates. And then picked people who were more like Spock than Kirk.
Example from the article: Someone asked one of the Apollo astronauts who walked on the Moon to describe the experience. He answered, "We successfully completed the mission."
Have you ever heard of an astronaut who wrote a poem? An astronaut who sang the blues? An astronaut who cried while watching "The Notebook?" Forget it. Those dudes were chosen because they were calm and focused.
The other day I watched some footage from last year when the government gave Neil Armstrong some gold medal for national service, a really big honor, biggest you can get. He was addressing both Houses of Congress. And his speech was really, really boring. And clearly written out, no ad lib. He didn't smile or cry. Calm as a cucumber.
That's the way these guys were. Many of them are still alive, and they don't give good interviews. They would rather play golf than talk.
History places astronauts squarely in the role of scouts. Natural selection gives us men and women who carefully go into new places, carefully observe, carefully get themselves back to home base, report, and then ... only then ... do the Type A personalities rush in.
But if we were all like that, our only music would be the whir of an engine.
Neil Armstrong accomplished his mission. May he have found the Summerlands. What They will make of him There, I have no idea.
In my sermon today I will get inside Neil's head, and the heads of those who flew similar missions.
I guess it was probably some time in 2009 that I found myself in some doctor's office, waiting for either the Heir or the Spare ... and waiting ... and waiting. I was reading a magazine (can't remember which one, but this is a blog, so I don't have to be specific). The magazine had a long article in it about the psychology of astronauts.
It stands to reason that astronauts have to be in tip-top physical shape. But what's going on in their heads?
Turns out these folks are not Type A personalities. They are not hot dogs, or show-offs, or especially daredevils. The Apollo astronauts (and all other space travelers) were chosen because their minds were very, very bland.
Of course you want astronauts who won't panic if the space ship starts to come apart piece by piece. So these men were chosen for their ultimate grace under pressure. They had to have the right stuff mentally, which translated to very, very calm, very, very rational psyches.
After the first spate of daredevils, Houston did vast psychological testing on astronaut candidates. And then picked people who were more like Spock than Kirk.
Example from the article: Someone asked one of the Apollo astronauts who walked on the Moon to describe the experience. He answered, "We successfully completed the mission."
Have you ever heard of an astronaut who wrote a poem? An astronaut who sang the blues? An astronaut who cried while watching "The Notebook?" Forget it. Those dudes were chosen because they were calm and focused.
The other day I watched some footage from last year when the government gave Neil Armstrong some gold medal for national service, a really big honor, biggest you can get. He was addressing both Houses of Congress. And his speech was really, really boring. And clearly written out, no ad lib. He didn't smile or cry. Calm as a cucumber.
That's the way these guys were. Many of them are still alive, and they don't give good interviews. They would rather play golf than talk.
History places astronauts squarely in the role of scouts. Natural selection gives us men and women who carefully go into new places, carefully observe, carefully get themselves back to home base, report, and then ... only then ... do the Type A personalities rush in.
But if we were all like that, our only music would be the whir of an engine.
Neil Armstrong accomplished his mission. May he have found the Summerlands. What They will make of him There, I have no idea.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Neil Young, Stoner Astronaut
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" I have a terrific, nostalgic sermon for you today, but we have to do the opening rituals and stuff first.
1. I would like the faeries to give back the thick envelope of photographs I set aside to have scanned. The best of the best. Gone. Only in Chateau Johnson can this happen.
I'm trying not to get worked up. But certain faeries had better hand over the pics, or they will not go to Spoutwood next May Day.
2. What a busy time this has been! On August 23, my beloved daughter The Spare headed off to college. The Spare! The Spare! What will my life be without the Spare making me laugh all the time! And her big dinner parties. And her Doctor Who parties. And her Harry Potter parties. And her 4th of July get-togethers. And her Christmas dinner soirees. I think we counted: She had eight parties last year with at least 10 guests. Seems like some of the life has been sucked out of the house.
Spare didn't choose just any college. She is attending the University of the Arts in Philadelphia. This expensive institution is not on the edge of the city. It's not in a quiet city neighborhood. It is right square on the freakin downtown streets, Center City, wedged in between skyscrapers and the Kimmel Center and the big theaters. You can see Billy Penn on top of City Hall, about six blocks away. Granted, Philly isn't New York, but at that particular spot it sure feels like it. To each her own, but I sure couldn't live amidst all that bustle. Spare! Spare! Never forget your Appalachian bloodline!
3. On we go to our pathetic patient, Decibel the parrot. Decibel hurt her wing awhile back, and the bills are mounting. We brought her home from the hospital last Monday, and within days she had torn her wound open again. Back we went to the vet for another $100 appointment, and now the poor feathered fool is wearing a bird collar.
The vet covered Decibel's collar with a few layers of surgical tape. Needless to say, Deci is hard at work trying to chew through the tape, and making good progress. Mr. J and I have to hand-feed her. But at least the collar is making her more docile. It's easier to give her the two kinds of expensive medicine she has to have twice a day. All of this so she doesn't peck on her injured wing -- so I have no idea how long she'll be in the collar. Seems like it's going to be awhile.
Now for the sermon: Mr. J just told me that NBC News.com reported the death of Neil Young, the first astronaut to walk on the moon! Is it any wonder you're reading this blog and not an online news source? As much as I mourn the loss of the real Neil, I just can't help but have some fun with this.
How old were you when the first man walked on the Moon? Were you even born? I was a ten-year-old who was just captivated by space travel. Among my earliest memories lie visions of the space flights dating back into the early 1960s.
So it was that my whole family had gathered to watch the lunar touch down, which (if I recall) was in the late afternoon, during a thunderstorm. (Some local preachers later sermonized that the storm was proof of God's wrath about the whole Apollo mission.)
My mother and father couldn't understand why Neil Young had been chosen to be the first man to walk on the Moon. After all, he was a stoner hippie freak with a whiny voice who dared to insult fine Southern folks. But there he was, humming "Cinnamon Girl" as he plunked down the Canadian flag next to the lunar module. Neil even complained to Houston that he needed to be back in time for a big rock concert in New York on some guy's dairy farm.
My family thought it would have been better to find someone who was really committed to space travel, rather than a rock star with other pressing commitments. But who were we to question our government's crucial decisions? We loved Richard Nixon, leader of the Free World.
A few of my friends thought Jimi Hendrix should have been the first astronaut to come out of the hatch and walk on the moon. Jimi was at least an American. And why did they leave Janis in orbit? Those were different times, I guess.
A few days later, Neil touched down and got back to his day job. He often said that his days as an Apollo astronaut were a defining moment in his creative life.
Rest in peace, Neil Young, ground-breaking astronaut. Egg on face, NBC.com.
1. I would like the faeries to give back the thick envelope of photographs I set aside to have scanned. The best of the best. Gone. Only in Chateau Johnson can this happen.
I'm trying not to get worked up. But certain faeries had better hand over the pics, or they will not go to Spoutwood next May Day.
2. What a busy time this has been! On August 23, my beloved daughter The Spare headed off to college. The Spare! The Spare! What will my life be without the Spare making me laugh all the time! And her big dinner parties. And her Doctor Who parties. And her Harry Potter parties. And her 4th of July get-togethers. And her Christmas dinner soirees. I think we counted: She had eight parties last year with at least 10 guests. Seems like some of the life has been sucked out of the house.
Spare didn't choose just any college. She is attending the University of the Arts in Philadelphia. This expensive institution is not on the edge of the city. It's not in a quiet city neighborhood. It is right square on the freakin downtown streets, Center City, wedged in between skyscrapers and the Kimmel Center and the big theaters. You can see Billy Penn on top of City Hall, about six blocks away. Granted, Philly isn't New York, but at that particular spot it sure feels like it. To each her own, but I sure couldn't live amidst all that bustle. Spare! Spare! Never forget your Appalachian bloodline!
3. On we go to our pathetic patient, Decibel the parrot. Decibel hurt her wing awhile back, and the bills are mounting. We brought her home from the hospital last Monday, and within days she had torn her wound open again. Back we went to the vet for another $100 appointment, and now the poor feathered fool is wearing a bird collar.
The vet covered Decibel's collar with a few layers of surgical tape. Needless to say, Deci is hard at work trying to chew through the tape, and making good progress. Mr. J and I have to hand-feed her. But at least the collar is making her more docile. It's easier to give her the two kinds of expensive medicine she has to have twice a day. All of this so she doesn't peck on her injured wing -- so I have no idea how long she'll be in the collar. Seems like it's going to be awhile.
Now for the sermon: Mr. J just told me that NBC News.com reported the death of Neil Young, the first astronaut to walk on the moon! Is it any wonder you're reading this blog and not an online news source? As much as I mourn the loss of the real Neil, I just can't help but have some fun with this.
How old were you when the first man walked on the Moon? Were you even born? I was a ten-year-old who was just captivated by space travel. Among my earliest memories lie visions of the space flights dating back into the early 1960s.
So it was that my whole family had gathered to watch the lunar touch down, which (if I recall) was in the late afternoon, during a thunderstorm. (Some local preachers later sermonized that the storm was proof of God's wrath about the whole Apollo mission.)
My mother and father couldn't understand why Neil Young had been chosen to be the first man to walk on the Moon. After all, he was a stoner hippie freak with a whiny voice who dared to insult fine Southern folks. But there he was, humming "Cinnamon Girl" as he plunked down the Canadian flag next to the lunar module. Neil even complained to Houston that he needed to be back in time for a big rock concert in New York on some guy's dairy farm.
My family thought it would have been better to find someone who was really committed to space travel, rather than a rock star with other pressing commitments. But who were we to question our government's crucial decisions? We loved Richard Nixon, leader of the Free World.
A few of my friends thought Jimi Hendrix should have been the first astronaut to come out of the hatch and walk on the moon. Jimi was at least an American. And why did they leave Janis in orbit? Those were different times, I guess.
A few days later, Neil touched down and got back to his day job. He often said that his days as an Apollo astronaut were a defining moment in his creative life.
Rest in peace, Neil Young, ground-breaking astronaut. Egg on face, NBC.com.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Basically Four Quarters
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Here's a nice shot of the Central New Jersey Pagan Pride Day! The gal in the purple dress is me. I got to the event just in time for the very end of the mid-afternoon Ritual. That's not so bad as it sounds. If I had just used my reliable sense of direction, I would never, ever have found that place! The GPS knows best.
Some people don't care for Pagan Pride Days because the Rituals are "lite" and cater to all sorts of beliefs. That is exactly why I do like them. Since I'm a gal who worships deities whose names are lost to time, it's always joyous to mix with people from a variety of praise and worship groups. I'm not particularly interested in the differences between Wicca and Druidism, or between Rhiannon and Freya. Everything flies with Anne! No exceptions! Don't believe me? I've got a picture of the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus on the shelf right behind me. Color me egalitarian when it comes to deity. Possible exception of Vulture, which is the One True Religion, over and above all others -- literally.
You might ask, "Anne, if you believe in all deities, how in the world do you worship?"
Simple. I call the Quarters.
Whether you're at a big ol' Pagan Lite Ritual, or just all alone in your tiny back yard, you can encompass the Divine and All Goodness by acknowledging the Directions. Suddenly the whole world is a great big circle, and you're in the middle of it, and all the deities of all the pantheons in the here and now, and the past, can be with you in your circle.
I've seen Quarters called in various ways. I like to begin with East (the hawk of dawn), move to South (the great stag), then to West (the salmon of wisdom), then to North (the great bear). Then, instead of calling a specific pantheon of deities, I just open up to the Divine.
You know what the bored gods tell me? That we modern humans are too serious when we worship. The bored gods were party gods. They want to dance, and laugh (and get drunk ... alas, those days are over for me). Therefore, my neighbors get treated to worship that looks like someone dancing to the Talking Heads. Which is sometimes what I do. With the bored gods, once you're harming no one, you are free, free, free to feel Their warmth, any way you choose to praise Them. They are in the circle with you. Glad to be seen and heard and felt.
One thing you'll never hear me say (mostly because I usually work solitary) is, "Am I doing it right?" When you worship the bored gods, there's no wrong! Their right rites have been lost to the mists of time.
Dance. Move. Laugh. It's a big circle.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
The Very Sad Plight of Flying Monkeys
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," two-weeks-until-school-starts edition!
Oh my, Decibel. One night under her home roof, she has bitten open all her wounds. Now I fear I must make a shameless plea for financial aid. If you're rolling in it and want to help with bird bills (the monetary, not the beak kind), please email me.
But hey. I know how tough it is out there. How few of you are rolling, or even breaking even. The "Tonight Show" laid off 20 workers. And Jay took a pay cut.
Basically we are all fucked.
Take, for example, the sad plight of the flying monkeys.
When I was a kid, the flying monkeys scared the living daylights out of me. I also detested those soldiers that chanted. It was great to see how happy they were when the wicked witch died.
Over the course of my life I have had very little reason to hire a flying monkey or a group of them. It's just not how I roll. But this summer, one came to me. He had been hired to turn me into a wicked witch.
Fat chance of that! Within 15 minutes of his arrival, I had explained to him that
1. The vast majority of witches are not wicked, and those that are would meet with disapproval from the rank and file.
2. I do not choose to be turned into a wicked witch. I would puke before I terrorized a cute little girl and a Cairn terrier.
3. I love to swim, ergo I would not like to evaporate the minute I step into the surf at Ventnor. (Step is the operative word here. The surf there is so rough I cringe to go beyond my kneecaps.)
4. One wicked witch in a 1939 film was enough for two centuries.
It was surprising how quickly he aborted his mission. I soon found out why.
The poor soul was severely emaciated. He said he hadn't had a decent banana in years. I promptly gave him every one we had in the house. He vowed to serve me forever, was there anyone I wanted to terrorize? A dog snatched? A scarecrow pummeled?
None of the above for me.
Then he told me how things have gone for the flying monkeys.
His tale of woe did not surprise me, but it might surprise you.
The Wicked Witch of the West was apparently a motivated employer who bargained amiably with the flying monkeys' union. Under her control, the flying monkeys were well paid. They had a good health care plan (most operations were performed by the witch herself) and generous vacation time. They were given higher wages for learning safer and more efficient ways to fly. And they didn't have to buy their bananas at some company store -- they had a nice, modern supermarket filled to the brim with fresh fruit.
Since the death of the Wicked Witch of the West, the flying monkeys have had trouble finding employment, even among some of the worst supervillains. Magneto offered them a pay cut and then laid off half the monkey force on the day before Christmas. Galactus said he had no need of flying monkeys when he could get Daleks for a fraction of the cost and a fraction of the food bill. The Tea Party will use them only surreptitiously, as contract employees -- and then the check just never arrives in the mail, even after multiple invoices.
It's hard out there for a flying monkey.
Most of them have maxed out their unemployment and exhausted their retirement savings.
At some times in my life, I would have considered this story a dodge or a hoax. Let me tell you, readers: I believed this poor flying monkey. He opened up a little sack in his tattered vest and showed me what he'd been paid to turn me into a wicked witch. Ten bucks up front, $30 more with proof of success.
With The Spare beginning college this week and Decibel apparently headed back to thespa animal hospital, I didn't have thirty bucks to cancel the assignment.
I rooted around my abundant supply of thrift store costumes, looking for wicked witch gear. Couldn't find any. I always have hated the Nittany Lions, so I didn't have any Penn State shirts. In desperation we went to the local ice cream store. I promised a kid two cones if the monkey could photograph me snatching one of them and making the kid cry.
Thin broth. I have a bad feeling that the flying monkey will not collect his meager fee. I did give him a nice sack of fruit, though. Everything's ripe this time of year in New Jersey.
Oh my, Decibel. One night under her home roof, she has bitten open all her wounds. Now I fear I must make a shameless plea for financial aid. If you're rolling in it and want to help with bird bills (the monetary, not the beak kind), please email me.
But hey. I know how tough it is out there. How few of you are rolling, or even breaking even. The "Tonight Show" laid off 20 workers. And Jay took a pay cut.
Basically we are all fucked.
Take, for example, the sad plight of the flying monkeys.
When I was a kid, the flying monkeys scared the living daylights out of me. I also detested those soldiers that chanted. It was great to see how happy they were when the wicked witch died.
Over the course of my life I have had very little reason to hire a flying monkey or a group of them. It's just not how I roll. But this summer, one came to me. He had been hired to turn me into a wicked witch.
Fat chance of that! Within 15 minutes of his arrival, I had explained to him that
1. The vast majority of witches are not wicked, and those that are would meet with disapproval from the rank and file.
2. I do not choose to be turned into a wicked witch. I would puke before I terrorized a cute little girl and a Cairn terrier.
3. I love to swim, ergo I would not like to evaporate the minute I step into the surf at Ventnor. (Step is the operative word here. The surf there is so rough I cringe to go beyond my kneecaps.)
4. One wicked witch in a 1939 film was enough for two centuries.
It was surprising how quickly he aborted his mission. I soon found out why.
The poor soul was severely emaciated. He said he hadn't had a decent banana in years. I promptly gave him every one we had in the house. He vowed to serve me forever, was there anyone I wanted to terrorize? A dog snatched? A scarecrow pummeled?
None of the above for me.
Then he told me how things have gone for the flying monkeys.
His tale of woe did not surprise me, but it might surprise you.
The Wicked Witch of the West was apparently a motivated employer who bargained amiably with the flying monkeys' union. Under her control, the flying monkeys were well paid. They had a good health care plan (most operations were performed by the witch herself) and generous vacation time. They were given higher wages for learning safer and more efficient ways to fly. And they didn't have to buy their bananas at some company store -- they had a nice, modern supermarket filled to the brim with fresh fruit.
Since the death of the Wicked Witch of the West, the flying monkeys have had trouble finding employment, even among some of the worst supervillains. Magneto offered them a pay cut and then laid off half the monkey force on the day before Christmas. Galactus said he had no need of flying monkeys when he could get Daleks for a fraction of the cost and a fraction of the food bill. The Tea Party will use them only surreptitiously, as contract employees -- and then the check just never arrives in the mail, even after multiple invoices.
It's hard out there for a flying monkey.
Most of them have maxed out their unemployment and exhausted their retirement savings.
At some times in my life, I would have considered this story a dodge or a hoax. Let me tell you, readers: I believed this poor flying monkey. He opened up a little sack in his tattered vest and showed me what he'd been paid to turn me into a wicked witch. Ten bucks up front, $30 more with proof of success.
With The Spare beginning college this week and Decibel apparently headed back to the
I rooted around my abundant supply of thrift store costumes, looking for wicked witch gear. Couldn't find any. I always have hated the Nittany Lions, so I didn't have any Penn State shirts. In desperation we went to the local ice cream store. I promised a kid two cones if the monkey could photograph me snatching one of them and making the kid cry.
Thin broth. I have a bad feeling that the flying monkey will not collect his meager fee. I did give him a nice sack of fruit, though. Everything's ripe this time of year in New Jersey.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Gods Are Bored Update
Well, beyond all the expectations of myself, the Bored Gods have returned Decibel the Parrot to me, greatly improved and well on the way to health again! I'm sure there is some venerable deity of the South American rain forest to whom I owe a debt of gratitude. As for the debt to the vet? Oh, snap. Don't even ask. Okay, I'll tell you: four figures. Could have had 20 budgies and 20 cages and 20 sacks of budgie food for what Mr. J shelled out. A big, bright "Gods Are Bored" thanks to all who contributed to the Decibel Fund, and it is still open, should you feel inclined.
On Saturday Mr. J and I went to the Central New Jersey Pagan Pride Day, and I got to meet Mrs. B, she of the famous "Confessions of a Pagan Soccer Mom" blog (link in my sidebar). What a lovely lady! She gave a presentation on poppets that was very interesting ... I asked her to make one for Decibel.
My current Druid Grove was well-represented there too. The park where the event was held could not possibly be an easy commute for any of them (took me over an hour). If there are evangelists for Druidry, these folks are the ones. Heck, we may be knocking on your door some Saturday morning, all dressed in Celtic knot tie-dye!
That's all the news I have time to share, except for this: I've lost 20 pounds this summer. It was a rigorous diet that I do not recommend in any way, shape, or form, but it's nice to have my girlish figure back.
Oh yeah. I almost forgot! I also learned Stanza 52 of "Song of Myself," by Walt Whitman:
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me
He complains of my gab and my loitering
I too am not a bit tame; I too am untranslatable
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
The last scud of day holds back for me
It flings my likeness after the rest, and good and true as any on the shadowed wilds
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
I depart as air; I shake my white locks at the runaway sun
I effuse my flesh in eddies and drift it in lacy jags
I bequeath myself to the dirt, to grow from the grass I love
If you want me again, look under your boot-soles
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged
Missing me one place search another
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
The last few lines need a little touching up, but go ahead and try to get this one by heart. The "shadowed wilds" line took me a whole week. If you see any omissions, tell me ASAP, because school starts in two weeks.
On Saturday Mr. J and I went to the Central New Jersey Pagan Pride Day, and I got to meet Mrs. B, she of the famous "Confessions of a Pagan Soccer Mom" blog (link in my sidebar). What a lovely lady! She gave a presentation on poppets that was very interesting ... I asked her to make one for Decibel.
My current Druid Grove was well-represented there too. The park where the event was held could not possibly be an easy commute for any of them (took me over an hour). If there are evangelists for Druidry, these folks are the ones. Heck, we may be knocking on your door some Saturday morning, all dressed in Celtic knot tie-dye!
That's all the news I have time to share, except for this: I've lost 20 pounds this summer. It was a rigorous diet that I do not recommend in any way, shape, or form, but it's nice to have my girlish figure back.
Oh yeah. I almost forgot! I also learned Stanza 52 of "Song of Myself," by Walt Whitman:
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me
He complains of my gab and my loitering
I too am not a bit tame; I too am untranslatable
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
The last scud of day holds back for me
It flings my likeness after the rest, and good and true as any on the shadowed wilds
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
I depart as air; I shake my white locks at the runaway sun
I effuse my flesh in eddies and drift it in lacy jags
I bequeath myself to the dirt, to grow from the grass I love
If you want me again, look under your boot-soles
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged
Missing me one place search another
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
The last few lines need a little touching up, but go ahead and try to get this one by heart. The "shadowed wilds" line took me a whole week. If you see any omissions, tell me ASAP, because school starts in two weeks.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
The Computer in My Head
We at "The Gods Are Bored" just completed a two-day, mind-numbing seminar on the latest, greatest computer program for data-driven instruction.
If you haven't heard of data-driven instruction, it's the latest, greatest tool for teachers everywhere. Just by looking at numbers grouped various ways, you can see exactly how your students are progressing as they learn something. This by-the-number approach has been created by two forces:
1. Standardized testing, and
2. Computer geeks
Go on, tell a computer geek to create a program that tracks student progress as the kids fill in little circles with number two pencils. Snap, crackle, pop! Eight ways, 15 ways, two dozen ways, to follow your students, group them, pinpoint specific tasks they can't do very well (i.e. subordinate clauses), and, of course, that all-important number: their Lexile score.
Lexile is basically reading-level, only geekier. I wish all my readers could take the standardized test for Lexile, so they would know how brilliant they are. Collectively we would max out that puppy and drive the data through the roof!
I've only been a teacher for a few years, but there are some things I've learned. I did not need to consult a computer to learn these things. Here goes:
1. If you have 110 students, by October you will know them all, their strengths and weaknesses, because you like them, they're people, and they reveal what they can and can't do, even if they don't want to.
2. Most standardized tests suck.
3. Someone is making a lot of money off the widely-held conviction that teachers can't tell which of their students need help without consulting a pie chart.
4. Most older teachers who grew up before the era of computers spend valuable time trying to run data through computers when they could just be reading student essays and making notes with a pencil, on some paper.
5. Not everyone is going to "get" everything, but this is the goal in today's educational environment. So, let me get this straight. Should Decibel's vet know how to fix my car? Should I know how to spay a cat?
Did you know that the geeks are trying to create a computer program that can grade essays? There are some programs already that can offer help with grammar, but nothing that can judge content. So this important grading falls to people. Well, we know this won't last, because you have to pay people to score essays, and a computer could do it cheaper.
Pardon me for not mincing words, but I hate it when a person is reduced to a numerical score. If Anne Johnson is having a bad day and decides that a computerized standardized test is the last thing she wants to do on earth, she will be deemed a moron by the data. It will be even worse if the cute guy next to her is flirting with her for the first time ever.
Sorry, geeks, but just now the computer in my head is better at tracking student progress than your fancy programs. On the day when that is no longer the case, the human race is doomed.
If you haven't heard of data-driven instruction, it's the latest, greatest tool for teachers everywhere. Just by looking at numbers grouped various ways, you can see exactly how your students are progressing as they learn something. This by-the-number approach has been created by two forces:
1. Standardized testing, and
2. Computer geeks
Go on, tell a computer geek to create a program that tracks student progress as the kids fill in little circles with number two pencils. Snap, crackle, pop! Eight ways, 15 ways, two dozen ways, to follow your students, group them, pinpoint specific tasks they can't do very well (i.e. subordinate clauses), and, of course, that all-important number: their Lexile score.
Lexile is basically reading-level, only geekier. I wish all my readers could take the standardized test for Lexile, so they would know how brilliant they are. Collectively we would max out that puppy and drive the data through the roof!
I've only been a teacher for a few years, but there are some things I've learned. I did not need to consult a computer to learn these things. Here goes:
1. If you have 110 students, by October you will know them all, their strengths and weaknesses, because you like them, they're people, and they reveal what they can and can't do, even if they don't want to.
2. Most standardized tests suck.
3. Someone is making a lot of money off the widely-held conviction that teachers can't tell which of their students need help without consulting a pie chart.
4. Most older teachers who grew up before the era of computers spend valuable time trying to run data through computers when they could just be reading student essays and making notes with a pencil, on some paper.
5. Not everyone is going to "get" everything, but this is the goal in today's educational environment. So, let me get this straight. Should Decibel's vet know how to fix my car? Should I know how to spay a cat?
Did you know that the geeks are trying to create a computer program that can grade essays? There are some programs already that can offer help with grammar, but nothing that can judge content. So this important grading falls to people. Well, we know this won't last, because you have to pay people to score essays, and a computer could do it cheaper.
Pardon me for not mincing words, but I hate it when a person is reduced to a numerical score. If Anne Johnson is having a bad day and decides that a computerized standardized test is the last thing she wants to do on earth, she will be deemed a moron by the data. It will be even worse if the cute guy next to her is flirting with her for the first time ever.
Sorry, geeks, but just now the computer in my head is better at tracking student progress than your fancy programs. On the day when that is no longer the case, the human race is doomed.
Friday, August 10, 2012
Decibel Update/Marginal Issues/Witch Wars
Hi folks! Give your bored deity some praise and worship today!
The vet just called with Decibel's vitals. She is improving, and she's acting like a baa lamb for them, allowing them to hold her and pet her, which -- trust me -- she wouldn't dream of doing in her daily environment. The cage they have her in is like a jail cell, but when I visit they let me hold her (I'm baffled that I still have fingers). She'll probably be in the hospital another six or seven days, making the tally for her recovery twice as much as her initial purchase price.
The other day I called gay marriage and other voter-distracting issues "meaningless." That was not the proper word to use. Human rights are never meaningless. I should have said "marginal." Too many people are casting votes for their legislators based on single issues, disregarding the more widespread and dire problems, with global climate change heading the list, at least in my playbook. Our economy is so broken. It's getting worse every day, too. How long can this go on? Just in this household alone, we will be facing pay cuts next year as high as 15 percent! This is outrageous, and we aren't alone by any stretch of the imagination.
Next topic: Another round of what I love to call "witch wars." It seems like, no matter how large or small the group, right down to, but not including, solitary, you will often see arguments and drama that adversely affect the religious experience. Much has been written in many venues about this. I have to laugh, because I wonder how many of the people who are concerned about "witch wars" have ever worked Children's Sunday School at a Methodist church. Or sung in a choir led by a good-looking director. Or went to a high school with a cross-town rivalry. Yes, yes, I know we Pagans are supposed to be setting a good example for future generations and other religions, but people are people. Everywhere.
If anything, the Pagan ranks may be loaded with irate people, because some of us come from traumatizing experiences with Methodist Sunday Schools. We're the ones who said, "This just isn't right," and maybe we're just wired to keep on saying that, wherever we wind up.
Personally, every whiff of drama I smell from a Pagan group sends me running. At my age I am not going to deal with factions or cults of personality, or divisions in philosophy engendered by heated argument. The bored gods hear me when I praise and worship them all by myself.
Some people need their Covens and Groves, and some people can go it alone. If you are having trouble with your group, you should try solitary. The only drama you bring to that Circle is your own.
Oh! Free advice! Sorry ... I'll have to issue an I.O.U. if you want me to pay you for reading it. Decibel's in the clink, Spare needs an Apple laptop (MUST BE APPLE) for school, and it's August ... the month when every school teacher can't buy a cup of coffee.
The vet just called with Decibel's vitals. She is improving, and she's acting like a baa lamb for them, allowing them to hold her and pet her, which -- trust me -- she wouldn't dream of doing in her daily environment. The cage they have her in is like a jail cell, but when I visit they let me hold her (I'm baffled that I still have fingers). She'll probably be in the hospital another six or seven days, making the tally for her recovery twice as much as her initial purchase price.
The other day I called gay marriage and other voter-distracting issues "meaningless." That was not the proper word to use. Human rights are never meaningless. I should have said "marginal." Too many people are casting votes for their legislators based on single issues, disregarding the more widespread and dire problems, with global climate change heading the list, at least in my playbook. Our economy is so broken. It's getting worse every day, too. How long can this go on? Just in this household alone, we will be facing pay cuts next year as high as 15 percent! This is outrageous, and we aren't alone by any stretch of the imagination.
Next topic: Another round of what I love to call "witch wars." It seems like, no matter how large or small the group, right down to, but not including, solitary, you will often see arguments and drama that adversely affect the religious experience. Much has been written in many venues about this. I have to laugh, because I wonder how many of the people who are concerned about "witch wars" have ever worked Children's Sunday School at a Methodist church. Or sung in a choir led by a good-looking director. Or went to a high school with a cross-town rivalry. Yes, yes, I know we Pagans are supposed to be setting a good example for future generations and other religions, but people are people. Everywhere.
If anything, the Pagan ranks may be loaded with irate people, because some of us come from traumatizing experiences with Methodist Sunday Schools. We're the ones who said, "This just isn't right," and maybe we're just wired to keep on saying that, wherever we wind up.
Personally, every whiff of drama I smell from a Pagan group sends me running. At my age I am not going to deal with factions or cults of personality, or divisions in philosophy engendered by heated argument. The bored gods hear me when I praise and worship them all by myself.
Some people need their Covens and Groves, and some people can go it alone. If you are having trouble with your group, you should try solitary. The only drama you bring to that Circle is your own.
Oh! Free advice! Sorry ... I'll have to issue an I.O.U. if you want me to pay you for reading it. Decibel's in the clink, Spare needs an Apple laptop (MUST BE APPLE) for school, and it's August ... the month when every school teacher can't buy a cup of coffee.
Thursday, August 09, 2012
This Land Is Their Land
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," hoping the deities of yesteryear will be able to find work in this dismal economic climate.
I doubt that They will. Even though They are gods who can work miracles, heal the sick, send lightning bolts and good/bad weather, soothe the grieving, and protect the populace. Sadly, all of these positions are currently filled by a single deity, which makes Him the one percent.
Good luck saving those mountain gorillas, Chonganda. Maybe you can get an unpaid internship.
This billboard shocked commuters in the Las Vegas area today. Apparently it was a totally rogue action, done overnight by somehappily employed, secure individual with a living wage and health care desperate out-of-work (but not out of ideas) American. According to the story on the Yahoo news feed, Nevada's legislature has cut funding for suicide prevention and intervention.
(Don't be alarmed. That's a mannequin. I would not call it a dummy.)
We are living in a nation where many people can't find work, but they can buy guns. Some of these people are deeply concerned with totally meaningless issues like gay marriage and abortion, while their usefulness as "units" disappears.
Others may be starting to re-think who the real villains are. The fact that these villains are not as clueless as Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette will protect them for awhile. But as more and more people find themselves unable to feed their children (lower rungs), pay for their homes (my rung), or advance thanks to extra education and hard work (higher rung), the villains will no longer be safe.
If you add climate change to this mix, oh golly.
I doubt that They will. Even though They are gods who can work miracles, heal the sick, send lightning bolts and good/bad weather, soothe the grieving, and protect the populace. Sadly, all of these positions are currently filled by a single deity, which makes Him the one percent.
Good luck saving those mountain gorillas, Chonganda. Maybe you can get an unpaid internship.
This billboard shocked commuters in the Las Vegas area today. Apparently it was a totally rogue action, done overnight by some
(Don't be alarmed. That's a mannequin. I would not call it a dummy.)
We are living in a nation where many people can't find work, but they can buy guns. Some of these people are deeply concerned with totally meaningless issues like gay marriage and abortion, while their usefulness as "units" disappears.
Others may be starting to re-think who the real villains are. The fact that these villains are not as clueless as Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette will protect them for awhile. But as more and more people find themselves unable to feed their children (lower rungs), pay for their homes (my rung), or advance thanks to extra education and hard work (higher rung), the villains will no longer be safe.
If you add climate change to this mix, oh golly.
Tuesday, August 07, 2012
Decibel Makes Up for Lost Time
This will have to be quick, because I have a doctor's appointment shortly.
Decibel the parrot hurt her wing a few weeks ago. I suspect it was a run-in with a squirrel, as my cats are justifiably afraid of Decibel.
Parrots are very stoic, so it wasn't until this morning, when she was practically falling off the perch, that I decided she needed a trip to the vet.
Part of the reason I held off on the vet trip is because, as generous as Governor Chris Christie is with my state health care (not), he draws the line at caged birds. Meanwhile, Spare starts college in two weeks.
Decibel is now in the hospital receiving multiple levels of care. She will live to earn her name. The bill is astronomical.
I decided not to turn Decibel over for adoption (meaning that someone else would foot the bill for her recovery) because the doggone bird has been with me since chickhood and is totally bonded to me. What's the use of her living if she's looking for me every day in someone else's house?
The vet assured me that Decibel can be completely cured. So, there you have it.
Over the years, Decibel has been a very cheap pet. All I had to do was buy bird food, which I supplemented with stuff from our table and the occasional treat. A lot less overhead than a cat. Decibel has been living in the same cage since 1990. It's getting a bit harder to dismantle for cleaning but is otherwise functional.
Alas, all pets come with a price tag. Time to ante up for Decibel.
Decibel the parrot hurt her wing a few weeks ago. I suspect it was a run-in with a squirrel, as my cats are justifiably afraid of Decibel.
Parrots are very stoic, so it wasn't until this morning, when she was practically falling off the perch, that I decided she needed a trip to the vet.
Part of the reason I held off on the vet trip is because, as generous as Governor Chris Christie is with my state health care (not), he draws the line at caged birds. Meanwhile, Spare starts college in two weeks.
Decibel is now in the hospital receiving multiple levels of care. She will live to earn her name. The bill is astronomical.
I decided not to turn Decibel over for adoption (meaning that someone else would foot the bill for her recovery) because the doggone bird has been with me since chickhood and is totally bonded to me. What's the use of her living if she's looking for me every day in someone else's house?
The vet assured me that Decibel can be completely cured. So, there you have it.
Over the years, Decibel has been a very cheap pet. All I had to do was buy bird food, which I supplemented with stuff from our table and the occasional treat. A lot less overhead than a cat. Decibel has been living in the same cage since 1990. It's getting a bit harder to dismantle for cleaning but is otherwise functional.
Alas, all pets come with a price tag. Time to ante up for Decibel.
Sunday, August 05, 2012
Put It to the Test
Good morning from "The Gods Are Bored!" I just read the most depressing article about county fairs in the New York Times. The drought in the heartland has wreaked havoc on prize-winning zucchinis and 200+ pound pumpkins.
For those of us who grew up eagerly anticipating the county fair, this is a sad story that illustrates the scary commencement of a new Dust Bowl in our primary food-producing regions.
But, hey! Let's all be distracted by silly stuff!
Just in on Yahoo News:
Johan Huibers, a Dutch contractor and millionaire has reproduced a copy of Noah's Ark, built the proportions laid out in The Bible.
Here it is:
EXHIBIT A: NOAH'S ARK REBUILT
Now, recall that we here at "The Gods Are Bored" believe in "production for use." This is why we abhor firearms and even those bottle rockets that take off peoples' fingers on the Fourth of July.
In this case, though, I think "production for use" applies.
Considering that the world could be headed into a new era of catastrophic flooding, I think we should pack up that ark with two of every living creature on the Earth. Of course we need also to leave room for the dinosaurs. We can calculate that space by using the existing dinosaur fossil skeletons for measurement purposes.
Rounding up insects will be difficult and, at times, perilous. However, it is not fair to exclude them, since they are the largest family of creatures on the planet. I volunteer a stink bug, gender unknown, and a pair of silverfish I found mating in one of Mr. J's boxes of newspaper clippings. Mosquitoes can fly, and there are too many in my yard to catch, so I'm going to leave that chore for someone else.
We also need to make comfortable space for eight people. And a storehouse for food supplies, 40 days' worth, including all the vast variety of foodstuffs animals nosh on. I have a shrubbery that could keep a pair of leaf miners going for 40 days. They can have it if they dig it up and take it away.
There you have it. Production for use. Load up that ark, set it adrift in the Sargasso Sea, and look for the snow-white dove bearing an olive branch. A sodden olive branch bearing no fruit, because it was submerged and drowned.
Hmmm. Problem there. All the plants drowned! How are we going to feed the leaf miners until new shrubbery can be nursed to maturity?
For those of us who grew up eagerly anticipating the county fair, this is a sad story that illustrates the scary commencement of a new Dust Bowl in our primary food-producing regions.
But, hey! Let's all be distracted by silly stuff!
Just in on Yahoo News:
Johan Huibers, a Dutch contractor and millionaire has reproduced a copy of Noah's Ark, built the proportions laid out in The Bible.
Here it is:
EXHIBIT A: NOAH'S ARK REBUILT
Now, recall that we here at "The Gods Are Bored" believe in "production for use." This is why we abhor firearms and even those bottle rockets that take off peoples' fingers on the Fourth of July.
In this case, though, I think "production for use" applies.
Considering that the world could be headed into a new era of catastrophic flooding, I think we should pack up that ark with two of every living creature on the Earth. Of course we need also to leave room for the dinosaurs. We can calculate that space by using the existing dinosaur fossil skeletons for measurement purposes.
Rounding up insects will be difficult and, at times, perilous. However, it is not fair to exclude them, since they are the largest family of creatures on the planet. I volunteer a stink bug, gender unknown, and a pair of silverfish I found mating in one of Mr. J's boxes of newspaper clippings. Mosquitoes can fly, and there are too many in my yard to catch, so I'm going to leave that chore for someone else.
We also need to make comfortable space for eight people. And a storehouse for food supplies, 40 days' worth, including all the vast variety of foodstuffs animals nosh on. I have a shrubbery that could keep a pair of leaf miners going for 40 days. They can have it if they dig it up and take it away.
There you have it. Production for use. Load up that ark, set it adrift in the Sargasso Sea, and look for the snow-white dove bearing an olive branch. A sodden olive branch bearing no fruit, because it was submerged and drowned.
Hmmm. Problem there. All the plants drowned! How are we going to feed the leaf miners until new shrubbery can be nursed to maturity?
Thursday, August 02, 2012
Our Very Wonderful Well-Regulated Militia
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," fellow soldiers! It's time to protect America!
You see, each and every one of us over the age of 18, with very few exceptions, are members of the well-regulated militia.
You've probably noticed that I write a lot about the First Amendment. In the interest of fairness, it's time to look at the Second Amendment:
"A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to bear arms, shall not be infringed."
Here comes the Hun! Where's my gun?
It's not easy being a member of the United States of America well regulated militia. People so easily overlook your role in protecting our free state.
Just this morning, I heard that the mass transit police in Philadelphia apprehended a patriotic militia man on the busiest subway in the city. This soldier was carrying an AK 47 assault rifle and several rounds of ammunition. (His ration kit also included marijuana.) The cheek of those transit cops! Honestly!
My daughter The Heir rides mass transit in Philadelphia, and I am personally offended that a well-regulated militia man was hauled off the train and arrested. No doubt he was there in the first place to protect Heir and the other passengers from the ever-present danger of an enemy in our midst.
You are going to see more of this, readers. Our state security is going to be compromised because our militia members are being arrested, and in some cases denied firearms altogether. I quake, I absolutely quake, for my daughter's safety on the El. Everywhere you look there are Nazis, North Koreans, Viet Cong, and bearded terrorists shouting about Allah! What's the name of that little island in the middle of nowhere that the U.S. invaded back in the 1980s? Slips my mind, but you just know the leaders of that island are out for serious reprisals. (Just remembered: Grenada. Full of enemies.)
As for the arms we can bear, well, I say that whatever we can carry should be bearable. At my very next opportunity, I am going to a gun show in search of a surface-to-air missile. If I am going to be part of the well-regulated militia, I don't want to take any chances with those flocks of geese that pass this way in the fall. Haven't you ever heard of germ warfare?
You see, each and every one of us over the age of 18, with very few exceptions, are members of the well-regulated militia.
You've probably noticed that I write a lot about the First Amendment. In the interest of fairness, it's time to look at the Second Amendment:
"A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to bear arms, shall not be infringed."
Here comes the Hun! Where's my gun?
It's not easy being a member of the United States of America well regulated militia. People so easily overlook your role in protecting our free state.
Just this morning, I heard that the mass transit police in Philadelphia apprehended a patriotic militia man on the busiest subway in the city. This soldier was carrying an AK 47 assault rifle and several rounds of ammunition. (His ration kit also included marijuana.) The cheek of those transit cops! Honestly!
My daughter The Heir rides mass transit in Philadelphia, and I am personally offended that a well-regulated militia man was hauled off the train and arrested. No doubt he was there in the first place to protect Heir and the other passengers from the ever-present danger of an enemy in our midst.
You are going to see more of this, readers. Our state security is going to be compromised because our militia members are being arrested, and in some cases denied firearms altogether. I quake, I absolutely quake, for my daughter's safety on the El. Everywhere you look there are Nazis, North Koreans, Viet Cong, and bearded terrorists shouting about Allah! What's the name of that little island in the middle of nowhere that the U.S. invaded back in the 1980s? Slips my mind, but you just know the leaders of that island are out for serious reprisals. (Just remembered: Grenada. Full of enemies.)
As for the arms we can bear, well, I say that whatever we can carry should be bearable. At my very next opportunity, I am going to a gun show in search of a surface-to-air missile. If I am going to be part of the well-regulated militia, I don't want to take any chances with those flocks of geese that pass this way in the fall. Haven't you ever heard of germ warfare?
Wednesday, August 01, 2012
Lughnasadh 2012
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," Lughnasadh edition! Or, if you prefer the bored gods native to North America, Happy Feast of the Green Corn!
This is another of those fun summer parties we have (May Day being the other) that contain an underlying message of growth, fertility, making plans, and appreciating the weather that nourishes. For me, this holy day is also a moment to consider what happens when the weather (or life) does not nourish, when there's a drought, or a flood, or lightning strikes that decimate your favorite tree.
Well, this is where the atheists think that all religious people are silly. We thank the deities when our crops yield and mature, and we petition the deities when the sailing is rough.
With ample evidence to believe that the universe is completely random, there are also those uncanny moments that just don't seem possibly to be coincidences. This is my experience, anyway. Furthermore, I have said it before, and I'll say it again: If human beings represent the highest level available in the entire universe, then it's a damn sorry universe that ought to just fold in on itself and try again, sooner that later.
At the beginning of July, I went to Polish Mountain to walk the land and honor my ancestors. There's a very small burial plot near the foot of the mountain that has some recent graves in it ... enough for some kind of perpetual care fund. In that burial ground is a small stone for an ancestor of mine who fought in the Revolutionary War. Just as I was honoring this stone, a vulture swooped low over the hillside. It rounded once and then sailed off to the west.
I believe in free will, but I also believe in synchronicity and in Higher Powers. Stored within us are parts of our brains that we don't even use. I'm stealing from Robert Anton Wilson when I say that, should we some day be able to tap into those unused brain areas, we might really experience the gods.
How does your garden grow? Has this season been plentiful, or has it been fraught with peril and uncertainty? Either way, kick up your heels today ... just because the time of life is short.
Blessed be,
Anne
This is another of those fun summer parties we have (May Day being the other) that contain an underlying message of growth, fertility, making plans, and appreciating the weather that nourishes. For me, this holy day is also a moment to consider what happens when the weather (or life) does not nourish, when there's a drought, or a flood, or lightning strikes that decimate your favorite tree.
Well, this is where the atheists think that all religious people are silly. We thank the deities when our crops yield and mature, and we petition the deities when the sailing is rough.
With ample evidence to believe that the universe is completely random, there are also those uncanny moments that just don't seem possibly to be coincidences. This is my experience, anyway. Furthermore, I have said it before, and I'll say it again: If human beings represent the highest level available in the entire universe, then it's a damn sorry universe that ought to just fold in on itself and try again, sooner that later.
At the beginning of July, I went to Polish Mountain to walk the land and honor my ancestors. There's a very small burial plot near the foot of the mountain that has some recent graves in it ... enough for some kind of perpetual care fund. In that burial ground is a small stone for an ancestor of mine who fought in the Revolutionary War. Just as I was honoring this stone, a vulture swooped low over the hillside. It rounded once and then sailed off to the west.
I believe in free will, but I also believe in synchronicity and in Higher Powers. Stored within us are parts of our brains that we don't even use. I'm stealing from Robert Anton Wilson when I say that, should we some day be able to tap into those unused brain areas, we might really experience the gods.
How does your garden grow? Has this season been plentiful, or has it been fraught with peril and uncertainty? Either way, kick up your heels today ... just because the time of life is short.
Blessed be,
Anne
Monday, July 30, 2012
Chick Fil-A
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," fans of fried chicken since 1960! Man oh man, both of my grandmothers knew how to fry chicken! I can still taste those crispy, moist, flavorful bird bits in the digestion-related regions of my brain!
Which is one of the reasons why I can happily forgo any fast-food chicken on the market. Something tells me that the tender loving care that should be showered on young poultry is sadly lacking in today's chain store chew shops.
There's a lot of flap-flap and squawk squawk about Chick-Fil-A in the news right now. This fast food scourge has been in my neighborhood for twenty years, at least. While trying to grab market share from formidable rivals, Chick-Fil-A absolutely boasted about its Christian mission. If you missed this, you weren't looking for a waffle fry on a Sunday.
It's no surprise to me that the idea of gay marriage, or gays themselves for that matter, is anathema to Chick-Fil-A. This is a private, family-owned company with no ties to the workings of the government (save, no doubt, hefty contributions to any and every right-wing Dominionist wacko running for dog catcher and all else). The ownership of Chick Fil-A has every right to maximize its profits in the Bible Belt by minimizing profits elsewhere. Folks, seriously. The market share of this grease bucket was built on all the Christian consumers out there who didn't have good grannies with cast-iron skillets and bricks of lard.
I have not patronized a Chick-Fil-A in two decades. On the other hand, my daughter The Spare and her friends, while as liberal-minded as they come, consider the local CFA their gustatory hangout. Well, what can I say? Both of my grannies had found the Summerlands before Spare was born. Her experience of great fried chicken is limited to our annual vacation to the Eastern Shore of Maryland.
Truthfully, I wish more businesses were as honest as Chick-Fil-A. As consumers, we ought to know how private businesses are supporting political candidates, so that we can give our ducats to the stores that think our way, and avoid the ones that don't. For instance: Do you have a store named Urban Outfitters in your localhideous blight on the landscape shopping mall? Urban Outfitters is huge around here. This is a hip eporium that sells expensive clothes that look like they come from the thrift store. Forty bucks for a tee shirt with a faded logo and tears in the sleeves. Anyway, Urban Outfitters was recently outed for its huge contributions to conservative candidates nationwide. Cynical bastards love their Third World labor pool, no doubt, and want to insure that nothing in their wardrobe need be produced in the US of A.
Last Christmas Mr. J and I bought Spare a few threads from Urban Outfitters. This was before we knew about the company's agenda. Needless to say, I'll never shop there again. Spare doesn't need to, anyway. She is perfectly capable of buying a tee shirt at the thrift store, bleaching it, and cutting holes in the sleeves. In fact, she excels at this.
To shorten a long rant, I am glad Chick-Fil-A wears its dogma on its red-and-white logo. We are in the know about the company and can make our purchase decisions based on its transparency.
I don't know about you, but if I had to give up something, I'd sure as shootin' rather it be Chick-Fil-A than the Muppets. I am totally in love with Monster.
Which is one of the reasons why I can happily forgo any fast-food chicken on the market. Something tells me that the tender loving care that should be showered on young poultry is sadly lacking in today's chain store chew shops.
There's a lot of flap-flap and squawk squawk about Chick-Fil-A in the news right now. This fast food scourge has been in my neighborhood for twenty years, at least. While trying to grab market share from formidable rivals, Chick-Fil-A absolutely boasted about its Christian mission. If you missed this, you weren't looking for a waffle fry on a Sunday.
It's no surprise to me that the idea of gay marriage, or gays themselves for that matter, is anathema to Chick-Fil-A. This is a private, family-owned company with no ties to the workings of the government (save, no doubt, hefty contributions to any and every right-wing Dominionist wacko running for dog catcher and all else). The ownership of Chick Fil-A has every right to maximize its profits in the Bible Belt by minimizing profits elsewhere. Folks, seriously. The market share of this grease bucket was built on all the Christian consumers out there who didn't have good grannies with cast-iron skillets and bricks of lard.
I have not patronized a Chick-Fil-A in two decades. On the other hand, my daughter The Spare and her friends, while as liberal-minded as they come, consider the local CFA their gustatory hangout. Well, what can I say? Both of my grannies had found the Summerlands before Spare was born. Her experience of great fried chicken is limited to our annual vacation to the Eastern Shore of Maryland.
Truthfully, I wish more businesses were as honest as Chick-Fil-A. As consumers, we ought to know how private businesses are supporting political candidates, so that we can give our ducats to the stores that think our way, and avoid the ones that don't. For instance: Do you have a store named Urban Outfitters in your local
Last Christmas Mr. J and I bought Spare a few threads from Urban Outfitters. This was before we knew about the company's agenda. Needless to say, I'll never shop there again. Spare doesn't need to, anyway. She is perfectly capable of buying a tee shirt at the thrift store, bleaching it, and cutting holes in the sleeves. In fact, she excels at this.
To shorten a long rant, I am glad Chick-Fil-A wears its dogma on its red-and-white logo. We are in the know about the company and can make our purchase decisions based on its transparency.
I don't know about you, but if I had to give up something, I'd sure as shootin' rather it be Chick-Fil-A than the Muppets. I am totally in love with Monster.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
The Queen and I
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Well, the Summer Olympics are underway, in London, with all the fanfare expected (and not particularly watched).
As for me, I have trouble watching anything at all about Queen Elizabeth II without dissolving into tears.
QEII was born the same year as my mum, five months before. Growing up in a little village at the base of a mountain, my mother and her twin sister, Peggy, had two heroines: Shirley Temple and Queen Elizabeth II. I'm surprised I'm not named Elizabeth, actually. I was named after Princess Anne.
I would think it very interesting to grow up the exact same age and gender as a monarch of a mighty nation (albeit a figurehead). When my parents moved out of their home in 2004, there were more than 30 books about the royal family in the attic, dating from the 1930s (the princesses and their corgis) to the Princess Diana era. My mum told me how she and her sister listened to the radio for news of the two princesses, both before and during World War II. Then, as my own mother was coming of age in Appalachia, Princess Elizabeth was coming of age too, marrying the love of her life and becoming queen.
Queen Elizabeth books were favorite birthday gifts between my mom and her twin. Many of the QE books I found were inscribed from Aunt Peggy. Later in my mother's life, she received numerous QE and Princess Di books from my godmother, Marianna.
Lifelong fascination with HRH Queen Elizabeth of England. That was my mom.
Perhaps as a reward for her devotion, my mother found herself one day expecting a personal visit from the queen, at our little two-bedroom house near Sharpsburg, Maryland.
It was an ordinary school day at first. But when I got home from school, my mother was working feverishly to prepare the house for Queen Elizabeth's visit. The fine china had been set upon the table, with the silver service Mom got for her marriage. Mom was dressed to the nines, and she ordered me to go to my room, tidy it to perfection, and put on my best Sunday dress. And fast, because the queen was on her way!
My dad was a school teacher, the sole earner in our household. When he got home, dead tired, he received the same instructions: Sunday suit, white shirt, the queen was on her way!
Dad and I stood there. We were never sure what to say in these moments. Our slacking got a huge tongue-lashing from Mom ... to the point that we acquiesced to her demands, all the while telling her the queen was not coming.
The evening proceeded as we sat in the small living room, waiting for Queen Elizabeth. Apparently the queen was supposed to bring the food, because Mom had not prepared dinner, only the appearance of the table. At about 9:30, Mom announced that the queen must have been detained. Dad went to McDonald's and got us some hamburgers.
Yes, this is a sad tale of life with a parent who had bipolar disorder. On that particular evening, Mom was in a manic state. Her mental wiring was a mess. She died of dementia at the age of 74. The queen, her peer, looks hale and hearty twelve years later.
I get teary over Queen Elizabeth because my mother was hell on earth to live with, but on the odd occasion when she could bury herself in a new Queen Elizabeth book, or see some royal event on the telly, she would be lifted up from her demons for a short while. Mom never got to meet the queen (Aunt Peggy actually did). But Mom did get to see Prince Charles and Princess Diana once, in Washington, DC.
Prince William got married on the busiest morning of the Spoutwood Fairie Festival. Never mind. I got up at 4:45 and watched the whole doggone wedding. Wept from start to finish, especially when they showed the queen. And that movie, The King's Speech? Did you see that? I cried whenever they showed the little princesses with their corgis. Mom would have loved that movie.
Gods save the queen! Long may she reign!
As for me, I have trouble watching anything at all about Queen Elizabeth II without dissolving into tears.
QEII was born the same year as my mum, five months before. Growing up in a little village at the base of a mountain, my mother and her twin sister, Peggy, had two heroines: Shirley Temple and Queen Elizabeth II. I'm surprised I'm not named Elizabeth, actually. I was named after Princess Anne.
I would think it very interesting to grow up the exact same age and gender as a monarch of a mighty nation (albeit a figurehead). When my parents moved out of their home in 2004, there were more than 30 books about the royal family in the attic, dating from the 1930s (the princesses and their corgis) to the Princess Diana era. My mum told me how she and her sister listened to the radio for news of the two princesses, both before and during World War II. Then, as my own mother was coming of age in Appalachia, Princess Elizabeth was coming of age too, marrying the love of her life and becoming queen.
Queen Elizabeth books were favorite birthday gifts between my mom and her twin. Many of the QE books I found were inscribed from Aunt Peggy. Later in my mother's life, she received numerous QE and Princess Di books from my godmother, Marianna.
Lifelong fascination with HRH Queen Elizabeth of England. That was my mom.
Perhaps as a reward for her devotion, my mother found herself one day expecting a personal visit from the queen, at our little two-bedroom house near Sharpsburg, Maryland.
It was an ordinary school day at first. But when I got home from school, my mother was working feverishly to prepare the house for Queen Elizabeth's visit. The fine china had been set upon the table, with the silver service Mom got for her marriage. Mom was dressed to the nines, and she ordered me to go to my room, tidy it to perfection, and put on my best Sunday dress. And fast, because the queen was on her way!
My dad was a school teacher, the sole earner in our household. When he got home, dead tired, he received the same instructions: Sunday suit, white shirt, the queen was on her way!
Dad and I stood there. We were never sure what to say in these moments. Our slacking got a huge tongue-lashing from Mom ... to the point that we acquiesced to her demands, all the while telling her the queen was not coming.
The evening proceeded as we sat in the small living room, waiting for Queen Elizabeth. Apparently the queen was supposed to bring the food, because Mom had not prepared dinner, only the appearance of the table. At about 9:30, Mom announced that the queen must have been detained. Dad went to McDonald's and got us some hamburgers.
Yes, this is a sad tale of life with a parent who had bipolar disorder. On that particular evening, Mom was in a manic state. Her mental wiring was a mess. She died of dementia at the age of 74. The queen, her peer, looks hale and hearty twelve years later.
I get teary over Queen Elizabeth because my mother was hell on earth to live with, but on the odd occasion when she could bury herself in a new Queen Elizabeth book, or see some royal event on the telly, she would be lifted up from her demons for a short while. Mom never got to meet the queen (Aunt Peggy actually did). But Mom did get to see Prince Charles and Princess Diana once, in Washington, DC.
Prince William got married on the busiest morning of the Spoutwood Fairie Festival. Never mind. I got up at 4:45 and watched the whole doggone wedding. Wept from start to finish, especially when they showed the queen. And that movie, The King's Speech? Did you see that? I cried whenever they showed the little princesses with their corgis. Mom would have loved that movie.
Gods save the queen! Long may she reign!
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Mr. Applegate Shoulders the Blame -- Again
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" It's just a beautiful day in this neighborhood today, although I hear to my chagrin that many parts of the nation are being scorched. Why, it's as if Satan Himself sat down on the nation's bread basket for a nice long session of suntanning!
But Satan has better things to do. Like causing the murders in Aurora, Colorado.
Just out of prurient interest, I belong to several conservative Christian online magazines. There's one for women, and another called "Fire in My Bones" that seems to be for men, but not exclusively.
Today's "Fire in My Bones" cover story? You guessed it. Those killings in the movie theater? Work of Satan.
Here's what we in the writing biz call the "nut graph" from the story, author J. Lee Grady:
I’m not a crime sleuth. But if you ask me, the devil’s fingerprints are all over this tragedy.
This got me wondering if anyone has ever fingerprinted the devil. How would I know? So, reluctantly, I put in a text to one of my oldest "Gods Are Bored" interviewees, Satan. (Just like Floppy, Satan is sensitive about His name. With that in mind, I have agreed to call him "Mr. Applegate.") Please give a tepid and/or mildly hostile "Gods Are Bored" welcome to Mr. Applegate.
Anne: Please extinguish all smoking devices, Applegate. This is a smoke-free work place.
Applegate: No can do, Anne. Get your netbook, and we'll go outdoors.
................. *done, and no one harmed in the process*
Anne: Well, you knew it was coming, didn't you?
Applegate: Yep. More predictable than the weather.
Anne: We all know that guns don't kill people. People kill people. So, is that young man in Your back pocket?
Applegate: Swear on my forked tail, I have never had a petition or even a casual nod from that kid. He's not one of Mine. Let's be logical for a minute. If I were to decide to initiate the killing of innocent people, I could start a World War, just by choosing the right human leadership for the job.
Anne: Have you ever done this?
Applegate: Last time was the Walls of Jericho. Pinky swear. As you point out, people kill people. Then they blame me, after the fact. I'm a convenient whipping boy, a useful target, a "round-up-the-usual-suspect" mark ... *weeps*
Anne: I've never seen anyone wallow in self-pity the way you do. Then again, you do get a lot of bad press, much of it undeserved. Not all of it undeserved, but some of it. In this particular case, I think it's undeserved.
Applegate: It was not my praise and worship team that created gunpowder. It was my praise and worship team that started using it to kill people ... but the humans always credited God for their use of firearms. Like it was okay with Him, He even supported the slaughter.
Anne: "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord." Hmmm mmm mmmm.
Applegate: Exactly.
Anne: "Onward, Christian soldiers, marching as to war..."
Applegate: You made your point. You're going to bore your readership.
Anne: Mr. Applegate, I'm sorry to say that at this juncture of my life, I tend to look for hidden messages and motives in many things. Today's place-the-blame on You just reeks. I can just imagine that many readers of J. Lee Grady's "Fire in My Bones" probably own firearms ... strictly for hunting and protecting their families from hoodie-wearing thugs, of course. These Christian readers don't like to think that guns are dangerous things, and that gun users can kill people completely free of Your guidance. I'd be willing to bet that, for many "Fire in My Bones" readers, guns are considered a good thing. So, used wrongly, guns become Your weapons of choice.
Applegate: Yes. The logic breaks down. Either all guns that can kill people are evil, or none of them are evil. No such thing as a good gun, if you ask me.
Anne: This killer in question planned his rampage very carefully and amassed $15,000 worth of firearms. And You say You had nothing to do with the carnage? You never whispered in his ear?
Applegate: He was a neuroscience major, for God's sake. Try finding a neuroscience major who believes in Me. There are some, of course ... but the data skews to atheism or agnosticism, not to Satanic Panic.
Anne: So, what do you think actually did motivate that shooter?
Applegate: Misplaced rage. White-hot fury that years of boring book learning, studying for amazingly difficult exams, and living the poverty-level student life could afford him neither a job with a decent wage in his chosen field nor the prospect of studying further, because neuroscience gets so damned hard at the graduate level that you have to be a titanic genius to make a dent in the work load. I'm no psychiatrist, but I don't even think the kid is crazy. He just blew his stack at The Man ... and he couldn't find The Man.
Anne: However, he could find $15,000 worth of weaponry on the Internet and in stores. He purchased everything legally.
Applegate: Now just remember, Anne. Guns don't kill people. People kill people.
Anne: Actually, Mr. Applegate, I don't believe that. My philosophy is "production for use." Guns are produced to be used -- to kill people.
Applegate: Well, you can also shoot locks off things, like safes and doors.
Anne: Splitting hairs, Applegate. People don't buy Glocks to shoot the locks off safes.
Applegate: Just playing devil's advocate for a moment. *knocks head on wall* I hate that term!
Anne: I'm going to go on record absolving You of any credit for the Aurora shootings, Mr. Applegate.
Applegate: Thank you.
Anne: On the other hand, I see Your work abundantly in the messy paws of pedophile priests. ... ... Applegate? Applegate? Where did He go? He was here one minute, gone the next! Gosh, look at the singed hostas! Why didn't I remember that He's hell on flower beds and upholstery?
But Satan has better things to do. Like causing the murders in Aurora, Colorado.
Just out of prurient interest, I belong to several conservative Christian online magazines. There's one for women, and another called "Fire in My Bones" that seems to be for men, but not exclusively.
Today's "Fire in My Bones" cover story? You guessed it. Those killings in the movie theater? Work of Satan.
Here's what we in the writing biz call the "nut graph" from the story, author J. Lee Grady:
I’m not a crime sleuth. But if you ask me, the devil’s fingerprints are all over this tragedy.
This got me wondering if anyone has ever fingerprinted the devil. How would I know? So, reluctantly, I put in a text to one of my oldest "Gods Are Bored" interviewees, Satan. (Just like Floppy, Satan is sensitive about His name. With that in mind, I have agreed to call him "Mr. Applegate.") Please give a tepid and/or mildly hostile "Gods Are Bored" welcome to Mr. Applegate.
Anne: Please extinguish all smoking devices, Applegate. This is a smoke-free work place.
Applegate: No can do, Anne. Get your netbook, and we'll go outdoors.
................. *done, and no one harmed in the process*
Anne: Well, you knew it was coming, didn't you?
Applegate: Yep. More predictable than the weather.
Anne: We all know that guns don't kill people. People kill people. So, is that young man in Your back pocket?
Applegate: Swear on my forked tail, I have never had a petition or even a casual nod from that kid. He's not one of Mine. Let's be logical for a minute. If I were to decide to initiate the killing of innocent people, I could start a World War, just by choosing the right human leadership for the job.
Anne: Have you ever done this?
Applegate: Last time was the Walls of Jericho. Pinky swear. As you point out, people kill people. Then they blame me, after the fact. I'm a convenient whipping boy, a useful target, a "round-up-the-usual-suspect" mark ... *weeps*
Anne: I've never seen anyone wallow in self-pity the way you do. Then again, you do get a lot of bad press, much of it undeserved. Not all of it undeserved, but some of it. In this particular case, I think it's undeserved.
Applegate: It was not my praise and worship team that created gunpowder. It was my praise and worship team that started using it to kill people ... but the humans always credited God for their use of firearms. Like it was okay with Him, He even supported the slaughter.
Anne: "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord." Hmmm mmm mmmm.
Applegate: Exactly.
Anne: "Onward, Christian soldiers, marching as to war..."
Applegate: You made your point. You're going to bore your readership.
Anne: Mr. Applegate, I'm sorry to say that at this juncture of my life, I tend to look for hidden messages and motives in many things. Today's place-the-blame on You just reeks. I can just imagine that many readers of J. Lee Grady's "Fire in My Bones" probably own firearms ... strictly for hunting and protecting their families from hoodie-wearing thugs, of course. These Christian readers don't like to think that guns are dangerous things, and that gun users can kill people completely free of Your guidance. I'd be willing to bet that, for many "Fire in My Bones" readers, guns are considered a good thing. So, used wrongly, guns become Your weapons of choice.
Applegate: Yes. The logic breaks down. Either all guns that can kill people are evil, or none of them are evil. No such thing as a good gun, if you ask me.
Anne: This killer in question planned his rampage very carefully and amassed $15,000 worth of firearms. And You say You had nothing to do with the carnage? You never whispered in his ear?
Applegate: He was a neuroscience major, for God's sake. Try finding a neuroscience major who believes in Me. There are some, of course ... but the data skews to atheism or agnosticism, not to Satanic Panic.
Anne: So, what do you think actually did motivate that shooter?
Applegate: Misplaced rage. White-hot fury that years of boring book learning, studying for amazingly difficult exams, and living the poverty-level student life could afford him neither a job with a decent wage in his chosen field nor the prospect of studying further, because neuroscience gets so damned hard at the graduate level that you have to be a titanic genius to make a dent in the work load. I'm no psychiatrist, but I don't even think the kid is crazy. He just blew his stack at The Man ... and he couldn't find The Man.
Anne: However, he could find $15,000 worth of weaponry on the Internet and in stores. He purchased everything legally.
Applegate: Now just remember, Anne. Guns don't kill people. People kill people.
Anne: Actually, Mr. Applegate, I don't believe that. My philosophy is "production for use." Guns are produced to be used -- to kill people.
Applegate: Well, you can also shoot locks off things, like safes and doors.
Anne: Splitting hairs, Applegate. People don't buy Glocks to shoot the locks off safes.
Applegate: Just playing devil's advocate for a moment. *knocks head on wall* I hate that term!
Anne: I'm going to go on record absolving You of any credit for the Aurora shootings, Mr. Applegate.
Applegate: Thank you.
Anne: On the other hand, I see Your work abundantly in the messy paws of pedophile priests. ... ... Applegate? Applegate? Where did He go? He was here one minute, gone the next! Gosh, look at the singed hostas! Why didn't I remember that He's hell on flower beds and upholstery?
Monday, July 23, 2012
Never Go Godless into the World
I can tell a lot about people based on the way they respond when I tell them I teach kids from Camden. And trust me, I've gotten responses from all over the board.
Mr. J had a publication party for his book, and at that event, one of the liberal columnists from his newspaper literally got teary-eyed and told me what a noble cause I was devoting myself to.
Day before yesterday, other end of the spectrum, a woman said to me, "Wow. How come you haven't been shot yet?"
Of course, the truth falls squarely in the middle of these extremes.
The noble cause is complicated by the fact that I'm trying to teach teenagers. Remember when you were a teenager? Did you like sitting still and writing essays? Okay, okay, I did. But I was still rowdy. It's in the teenage playbook to be rowdy. Sometimes it's in the teenage playbook to be nasty and rude, other times sullen and even teary. Emotions all over the place. Kind of complicates the high-minded mission of the dedicated educator.
I was highly offended by the stereotype that all Camden teenagers are trigger-happy. Let me tell you, quite the opposite is the case. My students live their lives surrounded by gun violence, and they have seen the consequences of it more closely than anyone this side of Iraq. Shootings like the one this past week in Aurora totally baffle my kids. They understand targeted violence (and try to steer way clear of it). They don't understand randomness, unless it's a drive-by with collateral damage.
Having said that, my school is state-mandated to practice Code Orange drills where we act like there's an active shooter in the building. These drills make my students anxious. Inevitably they ask: "What if the shooter just shoots out the glass in the door and comes into the room?"
And I tell them, "I would try to protect you, even if it meant that I got shot. I've lived a good long life, and you are still young."
The sad truth is that I'm not sure I would have the courage to do that. This bothers me exceedingly, readers. If I could put a finger on one thing that really scares me, it's how I would respond if someperson made crazy by the inequities of our current economy senseless lunatic started spraying bullets through my school.
This can happen anywhere. Last year this time, my daughter The Heir was in Oslo. She heard a pop like firecrackers, and all the glass blew out of the store she was in. A couple of hours later, more than four dozen teenagers had been shot dead on an offshore island. In Oslo. Freakin. Norway.
I find myself asking myself the most dreadful question. Would I have the courage, the faith in Higher Powers, to put myself in front of a bullet to save someone else's life?
See, this is why I take my bored gods with me to school. I may not talk about Them in class, but this economy is causing people to lose their minds. Never go Godless into the world, that's my philosophy. Hope that you can rise to any occasion. Hope even more that you'll never, ever face that test.
Mr. J had a publication party for his book, and at that event, one of the liberal columnists from his newspaper literally got teary-eyed and told me what a noble cause I was devoting myself to.
Day before yesterday, other end of the spectrum, a woman said to me, "Wow. How come you haven't been shot yet?"
Of course, the truth falls squarely in the middle of these extremes.
The noble cause is complicated by the fact that I'm trying to teach teenagers. Remember when you were a teenager? Did you like sitting still and writing essays? Okay, okay, I did. But I was still rowdy. It's in the teenage playbook to be rowdy. Sometimes it's in the teenage playbook to be nasty and rude, other times sullen and even teary. Emotions all over the place. Kind of complicates the high-minded mission of the dedicated educator.
I was highly offended by the stereotype that all Camden teenagers are trigger-happy. Let me tell you, quite the opposite is the case. My students live their lives surrounded by gun violence, and they have seen the consequences of it more closely than anyone this side of Iraq. Shootings like the one this past week in Aurora totally baffle my kids. They understand targeted violence (and try to steer way clear of it). They don't understand randomness, unless it's a drive-by with collateral damage.
Having said that, my school is state-mandated to practice Code Orange drills where we act like there's an active shooter in the building. These drills make my students anxious. Inevitably they ask: "What if the shooter just shoots out the glass in the door and comes into the room?"
And I tell them, "I would try to protect you, even if it meant that I got shot. I've lived a good long life, and you are still young."
The sad truth is that I'm not sure I would have the courage to do that. This bothers me exceedingly, readers. If I could put a finger on one thing that really scares me, it's how I would respond if some
This can happen anywhere. Last year this time, my daughter The Heir was in Oslo. She heard a pop like firecrackers, and all the glass blew out of the store she was in. A couple of hours later, more than four dozen teenagers had been shot dead on an offshore island. In Oslo. Freakin. Norway.
I find myself asking myself the most dreadful question. Would I have the courage, the faith in Higher Powers, to put myself in front of a bullet to save someone else's life?
See, this is why I take my bored gods with me to school. I may not talk about Them in class, but this economy is causing people to lose their minds. Never go Godless into the world, that's my philosophy. Hope that you can rise to any occasion. Hope even more that you'll never, ever face that test.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
On Friendship
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," green background with white letters since I dunno when! This blog has been praising and worshiping downsized deities since 2005. It's fun, it's nutritious (for the soul, which means zero calories), and it's been a good way to make new friends.
Now, let's take Floppy here, for instance. I didn't know Floppy until I hit rock bottom, and one of my dear readers sent him and a flock of other golden vultures to cheer me up. Floppy and I hit it off immediately. It helped that he is a vulture, but he has many redeeming qualities. What is one important quality of a good friend? He or she makes you laugh. Well, Floppy has a great sense of humor, no doubt gleaned from a long association with Sacred Thunderbirds, who seem so serious when you see Them in the sky. Since he arrived at Chateau Johnson, Floppy has done everything to lighten my load, including allowing himself to take ribbing after ribbing about his name from the local turkey buzzards.
Those turkey buzzards are just jealous. Seriously. Look at Floppy! Straight outta Egypt, where the people knew what to worship and what bird should be guarding their kids.
Tonight I got an email from an old friend who I haven't seen since 1987. I still consider her a bosom buddy. We haven't chatted on the phone ever. She doesn't read this blog. But we worked for the same venal publishing house, we got downsized and abused together, and now we both have transitioned into other taxing jobs. So we have a lot in common. Three years ago, I bought a cute little teddy bear. I sent it to her at Christmas and told her to send it back to me the next Christmas. That way we always send each other a useful gift without having to spend any money. Floppy agrees: This is true friendship!
I live in one of the most densely populated states in America, but I can count on one hand my true local friends. I'm a fun person, not snobby, but I like people who can make me laugh and who will share their lives with me the way I share mine with them. Floppy has given his Golden Seal of Approval to: Celeste, Nettle, Monkey Man, and the entire workforce of Woodstock Trading Company. That's it.
I'm surrounded by four dozen colleagues or more at school, all very nice, but most of them don't float my boat. Just is. Can't help that.
A funny thing started happening when I began writing this blog. I started getting friends a whole new way. Back in the early days there was a dude named Scott. And then people just started flooding in ... and I love them all! I'd start mentioning names, but I would be afraid I would miss someone. Y'all know who you are. I've met some of you in the flesh-and-blood, and WOW, do I wish you were my neighbors! I'll bet you wouldn't even complain when Decibel the Parrot starts earning her name.
Awhile back someone wanted to be my friend. Since she had no religious affiliation that would be affronted by the content here, I told her that if she wanted to get to know me, she could do it the way all of my newest friends did -- by reading "The Gods Are Bored." Turned out she didn't like my snarky tone. Heave ho! Love me, love my blog. It's who I am.
Floppy loves my blog, principally because I've been writing about him. Turns out vultures are rather vain. They want to look good (mostly to other vultures).
Here's to friendship, new, old, near and far! Here's to meeting fascinating people who love the bored gods!
*If you have ever left me a warm comment, you are my friend.
*If you have ever sent me an email thanking me for my blog, you are my friend.
*If you have sent me links to vulture news, you are a true friend.
*If you come here because you are a Pagan and you want a chuckle ... are you local? Floppy and I will invite you to tea.
Gods bless you every one. Love you guys. *Anne starts to get sniffy and weepy*
BFFL!
Now, let's take Floppy here, for instance. I didn't know Floppy until I hit rock bottom, and one of my dear readers sent him and a flock of other golden vultures to cheer me up. Floppy and I hit it off immediately. It helped that he is a vulture, but he has many redeeming qualities. What is one important quality of a good friend? He or she makes you laugh. Well, Floppy has a great sense of humor, no doubt gleaned from a long association with Sacred Thunderbirds, who seem so serious when you see Them in the sky. Since he arrived at Chateau Johnson, Floppy has done everything to lighten my load, including allowing himself to take ribbing after ribbing about his name from the local turkey buzzards.
Those turkey buzzards are just jealous. Seriously. Look at Floppy! Straight outta Egypt, where the people knew what to worship and what bird should be guarding their kids.
Tonight I got an email from an old friend who I haven't seen since 1987. I still consider her a bosom buddy. We haven't chatted on the phone ever. She doesn't read this blog. But we worked for the same venal publishing house, we got downsized and abused together, and now we both have transitioned into other taxing jobs. So we have a lot in common. Three years ago, I bought a cute little teddy bear. I sent it to her at Christmas and told her to send it back to me the next Christmas. That way we always send each other a useful gift without having to spend any money. Floppy agrees: This is true friendship!
I live in one of the most densely populated states in America, but I can count on one hand my true local friends. I'm a fun person, not snobby, but I like people who can make me laugh and who will share their lives with me the way I share mine with them. Floppy has given his Golden Seal of Approval to: Celeste, Nettle, Monkey Man, and the entire workforce of Woodstock Trading Company. That's it.
I'm surrounded by four dozen colleagues or more at school, all very nice, but most of them don't float my boat. Just is. Can't help that.
A funny thing started happening when I began writing this blog. I started getting friends a whole new way. Back in the early days there was a dude named Scott. And then people just started flooding in ... and I love them all! I'd start mentioning names, but I would be afraid I would miss someone. Y'all know who you are. I've met some of you in the flesh-and-blood, and WOW, do I wish you were my neighbors! I'll bet you wouldn't even complain when Decibel the Parrot starts earning her name.
Awhile back someone wanted to be my friend. Since she had no religious affiliation that would be affronted by the content here, I told her that if she wanted to get to know me, she could do it the way all of my newest friends did -- by reading "The Gods Are Bored." Turned out she didn't like my snarky tone. Heave ho! Love me, love my blog. It's who I am.
Floppy loves my blog, principally because I've been writing about him. Turns out vultures are rather vain. They want to look good (mostly to other vultures).
Here's to friendship, new, old, near and far! Here's to meeting fascinating people who love the bored gods!
*If you have ever left me a warm comment, you are my friend.
*If you have ever sent me an email thanking me for my blog, you are my friend.
*If you have sent me links to vulture news, you are a true friend.
*If you come here because you are a Pagan and you want a chuckle ... are you local? Floppy and I will invite you to tea.
Gods bless you every one. Love you guys. *Anne starts to get sniffy and weepy*
BFFL!
Friday, July 13, 2012
Wiccans 4 Gettysburg
Greetings from "The Gods Are Bored!" My, it's hot out. Hope you and yours are staying cool.
I had a wonderful bored deity all lined up for an interview yesterday, but it turns out He got an assignment and had to postpone. We'll see if we can't get Him in here soon, because He does some really interesting things.
In the meantime, I grabbed this email from a Red Oak Grove member, to whom it was sent:
Greetings from Four Points by Sheraton Chambersburg in ******Chambersburg**,
**PA****! I hope that you are having a wonderful summer and had a blessed
Summer Solstice a few weeks ago!
It is my understanding that many followers of the Wiccan Tradition enjoy
making pilgrimages to places where there are a great number of reported
instances of supernatural activity—such as ****Gettysburg****. It is with
great respect and this understanding that I write to you today. As we are
only 30 minutes from **Gettysburg**, I would like to invite you and your
fellow followers to stay at our hotel should you ever decide to make a trip
to ****Gettysburg****!
Should you ever choose to bring a group to our hotel, we would like to
offer you a discounted rate on sleeping rooms. This rate would be valid
for rooms with either one king or two double beds, a full bathroom, free
wireless internet, a television equipped with in-room movies and games, a
telephone, a state-of-the-art one cup coffee maker, an ironing board and
iron, and so much more, including unbeatable comfort! Included in the
price of the room is also our hot and cold buffet style breakfast served
every morning. We have the largest indoor pool in town, a garden
overlooking Falling Spring Creek with a grilling area and picnic gazebo, a
workout room, a coin-operated laundry facility, and Premium Sustainable
Coffee available in our lobby 24/7! It just doesn’t get any better than
this!
We also have four different meeting rooms, should your group ever desire to
have a place to meet, talk, form a circle, or simply mingle while in our
area. If you decide to book a group with us, I am more than willing to
work out a great rate for you on the meeting rooms—if you book enough
sleeping rooms, you could even get the meeting room for free!
I hope that you will take advantage of this offer and bring a group to ****
Gettysburg****. I myself really enjoy learning about the supernatural
activity in ****Gettysburg****—it is simply fascinating! If you would like
to discuss booking a group with us, or would like more information, please
do not hesitate to contact me. I look forward to any opportunities to work
with you in the future! Blessed be!******
Well! I don't know where to start laughing about this one! A tremendous amount of research went into this email, don't you think? I, for one, did not know that people who follow the Wiccan Tradition make pilgrimages to places of mass slaughter in order to talk to ghosts. I thought that was what Psychics do. If you are a non-psychic Wiccan, and you would be interested in going to ****Gettysburg**** to enjoy the high quality supernatural activity there, would you please comment below? I just want to see if there's anyone who identifies as Wiccan who would want to book such a trip (and book it at a Sheraton hotel. And book it at a Sheraton in ***Chambersburg, PA***, which is 30 minutes from ****Gettysburg****, which has its own Sheraton).
Let's briefly and off the top of my head recount the facts of ****Gettysburg****.
The battle lasted three days and produced 44,000 casualties. It occurred during the July 4 week. The weather was hot as hell, so the wounded quickly got gangrene or died of dehydration. Think of this: Not one single battle in either WWI or WWII produced as many American deaths as ****Gettysburg****. In three days it produced more casualties than the whole Iraq War (not counting Iraqis).
Do any of you Wiccan readers want gory details on the weapons of mass destruction employed at ****Gettysburg****? I didn't think so.
Moving on. What's with the asterisks ringing poor ****Gettysburg**** in this missive? I guess it makes the name stand out better. Kind of like ****Mass Bloodletting**** or ****Bodies Strewn Everywhere over a Shell-Pocked Landscape****.
Do I think there are ghosts at ****Gettysburg?**** Yes indeed. Do I, as a Pagan, want to seek them out for a seance? Oh HELL no! I've been on that battlefield. It's hardly bearable in the bright daylight, with poorly-dressed tourists snapping pointless pictures at pathetic monuments to decimated regiments.
Now for you psychics out there who might want to help the remaining tortured soldiers to cross over. Let me ask you this: After a day (or night) of that kind of Work, would you want to retire to some sterile McMotel that looks like every other McMotel of its name brand, from Abilene to Yuma? Can you imagine having a circle meeting there to talk about the supernatural experience on that hollow ground? (It is hollow, there's limestone underneath with caves.)
I'm sure the Four Points Sheraton ****Chambersburg**** (not ****Gettysburg****) hires relatively intelligent people. I mean, the invitation above doesn't have any grammatical errors in it. But the assumption that Wiccans would want to go to Gettysburg and mess with its horrific karma is a bit of a stretch.
I saved the funniest part for last. The email was sent to a Druid grove. That's kind of like inviting a lot of Methodists to ****Gettysburg**** because everyone knows that Baptists like to hunt for ghosts.
Geez, I was thinking of unsubscribing to that Druid message board! Changed my mind. Laughs are all what I'm about, even when the topic is more sad than funny.
I had a wonderful bored deity all lined up for an interview yesterday, but it turns out He got an assignment and had to postpone. We'll see if we can't get Him in here soon, because He does some really interesting things.
In the meantime, I grabbed this email from a Red Oak Grove member, to whom it was sent:
Greetings from Four Points by Sheraton Chambersburg in ******Chambersburg**,
**PA****! I hope that you are having a wonderful summer and had a blessed
Summer Solstice a few weeks ago!
It is my understanding that many followers of the Wiccan Tradition enjoy
making pilgrimages to places where there are a great number of reported
instances of supernatural activity—such as ****Gettysburg****. It is with
great respect and this understanding that I write to you today. As we are
only 30 minutes from **Gettysburg**, I would like to invite you and your
fellow followers to stay at our hotel should you ever decide to make a trip
to ****Gettysburg****!
Should you ever choose to bring a group to our hotel, we would like to
offer you a discounted rate on sleeping rooms. This rate would be valid
for rooms with either one king or two double beds, a full bathroom, free
wireless internet, a television equipped with in-room movies and games, a
telephone, a state-of-the-art one cup coffee maker, an ironing board and
iron, and so much more, including unbeatable comfort! Included in the
price of the room is also our hot and cold buffet style breakfast served
every morning. We have the largest indoor pool in town, a garden
overlooking Falling Spring Creek with a grilling area and picnic gazebo, a
workout room, a coin-operated laundry facility, and Premium Sustainable
Coffee available in our lobby 24/7! It just doesn’t get any better than
this!
We also have four different meeting rooms, should your group ever desire to
have a place to meet, talk, form a circle, or simply mingle while in our
area. If you decide to book a group with us, I am more than willing to
work out a great rate for you on the meeting rooms—if you book enough
sleeping rooms, you could even get the meeting room for free!
I hope that you will take advantage of this offer and bring a group to ****
Gettysburg****. I myself really enjoy learning about the supernatural
activity in ****Gettysburg****—it is simply fascinating! If you would like
to discuss booking a group with us, or would like more information, please
do not hesitate to contact me. I look forward to any opportunities to work
with you in the future! Blessed be!******
Well! I don't know where to start laughing about this one! A tremendous amount of research went into this email, don't you think? I, for one, did not know that people who follow the Wiccan Tradition make pilgrimages to places of mass slaughter in order to talk to ghosts. I thought that was what Psychics do. If you are a non-psychic Wiccan, and you would be interested in going to ****Gettysburg**** to enjoy the high quality supernatural activity there, would you please comment below? I just want to see if there's anyone who identifies as Wiccan who would want to book such a trip (and book it at a Sheraton hotel. And book it at a Sheraton in ***Chambersburg, PA***, which is 30 minutes from ****Gettysburg****, which has its own Sheraton).
Let's briefly and off the top of my head recount the facts of ****Gettysburg****.
The battle lasted three days and produced 44,000 casualties. It occurred during the July 4 week. The weather was hot as hell, so the wounded quickly got gangrene or died of dehydration. Think of this: Not one single battle in either WWI or WWII produced as many American deaths as ****Gettysburg****. In three days it produced more casualties than the whole Iraq War (not counting Iraqis).
Do any of you Wiccan readers want gory details on the weapons of mass destruction employed at ****Gettysburg****? I didn't think so.
Moving on. What's with the asterisks ringing poor ****Gettysburg**** in this missive? I guess it makes the name stand out better. Kind of like ****Mass Bloodletting**** or ****Bodies Strewn Everywhere over a Shell-Pocked Landscape****.
Do I think there are ghosts at ****Gettysburg?**** Yes indeed. Do I, as a Pagan, want to seek them out for a seance? Oh HELL no! I've been on that battlefield. It's hardly bearable in the bright daylight, with poorly-dressed tourists snapping pointless pictures at pathetic monuments to decimated regiments.
Now for you psychics out there who might want to help the remaining tortured soldiers to cross over. Let me ask you this: After a day (or night) of that kind of Work, would you want to retire to some sterile McMotel that looks like every other McMotel of its name brand, from Abilene to Yuma? Can you imagine having a circle meeting there to talk about the supernatural experience on that hollow ground? (It is hollow, there's limestone underneath with caves.)
I'm sure the Four Points Sheraton ****Chambersburg**** (not ****Gettysburg****) hires relatively intelligent people. I mean, the invitation above doesn't have any grammatical errors in it. But the assumption that Wiccans would want to go to Gettysburg and mess with its horrific karma is a bit of a stretch.
I saved the funniest part for last. The email was sent to a Druid grove. That's kind of like inviting a lot of Methodists to ****Gettysburg**** because everyone knows that Baptists like to hunt for ghosts.
Geez, I was thinking of unsubscribing to that Druid message board! Changed my mind. Laughs are all what I'm about, even when the topic is more sad than funny.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Back Yard of the Bored Gods
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Long time, no see! But now I'm back from meandering the sacred mountains and ready to don the good ol' "Gods Are Bored" riot gear!
There is a campground in south central Pennsylvania where all the happy bored deities go to chill and be with their various homies. The place is called Four Quarters Farm. It doesn't matter which deity or pantheon you call your own, this place will welcome you with arms wide open. For a gal like me who praises and worships Anything and Everything, it's like Wonderland.
Four Quarters Farm is in the same zip code as my former property. It's near Artemas, PA, a town that is hopelessly waiting for its one-horse application to be approved. I cannot tell you how happy I am to find a new home in 17211!
Over the weekend, the whole of 17211 sweltered just like everywhere else. But Four Quarters Farm has the answer to the heat: several first-class swimming holes, surrounded by fabulous geologic shelf formations. Instead of attending workshops, or yoga, or any of the other fun deity-service activities, yours truly just ensconced herself in the upstream swimming hole, the one by the fairy cairn. Floppy the vulture sunned himself on the rocks, and Puck the faerie and I spent three entire days swimming.
When I pruned up like a California Raisin, I just got out of the water long enough to study up on my Walt Whitman ... trying to learn a new poem this summer.
In the evening, there's big-time drumming. And a bonfire. If you don't like that, you can have a brilliant tea party with all the bored deities. If They ever had quarrels amongst themselves, They've patched things up. It's great to see them laughing as the little kids run themselves ragged.
Four Quarters Farm is a family campground that even has a meal plan (delicious stuff). Caveat: the swimming areas are clothing optional. Not a problem for the bored gods or me.
I did some ancestor work on Sunday, and as I was visiting the most ancient spot in my Appalachian heritage, I was buzzed by a buzzard. Literally, the gorgeous fellow was just above my head. The moment was ruined when that buzzard started laughing about Floppy's name. Vultures are like that sometimes.
There is a campground in south central Pennsylvania where all the happy bored deities go to chill and be with their various homies. The place is called Four Quarters Farm. It doesn't matter which deity or pantheon you call your own, this place will welcome you with arms wide open. For a gal like me who praises and worships Anything and Everything, it's like Wonderland.
Four Quarters Farm is in the same zip code as my former property. It's near Artemas, PA, a town that is hopelessly waiting for its one-horse application to be approved. I cannot tell you how happy I am to find a new home in 17211!
Over the weekend, the whole of 17211 sweltered just like everywhere else. But Four Quarters Farm has the answer to the heat: several first-class swimming holes, surrounded by fabulous geologic shelf formations. Instead of attending workshops, or yoga, or any of the other fun deity-service activities, yours truly just ensconced herself in the upstream swimming hole, the one by the fairy cairn. Floppy the vulture sunned himself on the rocks, and Puck the faerie and I spent three entire days swimming.
When I pruned up like a California Raisin, I just got out of the water long enough to study up on my Walt Whitman ... trying to learn a new poem this summer.
In the evening, there's big-time drumming. And a bonfire. If you don't like that, you can have a brilliant tea party with all the bored deities. If They ever had quarrels amongst themselves, They've patched things up. It's great to see them laughing as the little kids run themselves ragged.
Four Quarters Farm is a family campground that even has a meal plan (delicious stuff). Caveat: the swimming areas are clothing optional. Not a problem for the bored gods or me.
I did some ancestor work on Sunday, and as I was visiting the most ancient spot in my Appalachian heritage, I was buzzed by a buzzard. Literally, the gorgeous fellow was just above my head. The moment was ruined when that buzzard started laughing about Floppy's name. Vultures are like that sometimes.
Monday, July 02, 2012
Going Walkabout
When my family farm was sold, and I got my share of the evil ducats, I thought about going to Scotland or England, to the land of my forebears.
Except you've got to ask yourself: How many generations of your family has to live in a place before you cut loose the cords with Europe? If the answer is more than ten but less than sixteen, I'm better off doing walkabout in Appalachia.
Therefore, for the next six days, I will be in Appalachia, walking among my ancestors, paying them the respect that has gone missing since my grandparents died. I will leave tokens for them from my shrine and petition their help for me.
I plan to take the waters at Berkeley Springs, a meditative site that is chock-a-block with faeries.
Then I'm also going to this thing called Drum & Splash, which is held yearly at Four Quarters Farm. There are two nice swimming holes at Four Quarters Farm, and the place is pretty much open to any and every bored deity you could imagine. I've never spent much time there before, but I do like to drum. I've got a great drum. It's an old wash pan that belonged to my grandma, that I found out in the woods. I beat on it with a wooden spoon. If the other drummers object to this heirloom musical instrument, I will take my talents to the perimeter.
Basically, I'm going home without going home.
Floppy and his band of merry golden vultures will be going with me as a Sacred Thunderbird escort. I hope the turkey vultures up on Polish Mountain will be polite. It turns out that Floppy is sensitive about his name. He's like me: very easily vexed. I think we are going to be great friends.
Oh yeah, one last thing. That reprehensible moron developer who wanted to turn 1,000 acres of mountain land into a town of 14,000 people is starting to make noise again. Therefore, also on the agenda is some earnest petitioning to Cloacina for her continued protection of that pristine watershed.
I will try to check in with all three of you readers on July 6. Until then, have a safe and happy 4th of July. Be careful with those fireworks!
PS: Heir and I spent two hours chasing a yellow budgie around Cooper River Park this afternoon. I think I taught him how to fly with my overzealous pursuit. We left him some bird food and a pamphlet entitled "Surviving Hawk Attacks: A Bird's Guide to Public Safety." I borrowed it from Decibel's library.
Except you've got to ask yourself: How many generations of your family has to live in a place before you cut loose the cords with Europe? If the answer is more than ten but less than sixteen, I'm better off doing walkabout in Appalachia.
Therefore, for the next six days, I will be in Appalachia, walking among my ancestors, paying them the respect that has gone missing since my grandparents died. I will leave tokens for them from my shrine and petition their help for me.
I plan to take the waters at Berkeley Springs, a meditative site that is chock-a-block with faeries.
Then I'm also going to this thing called Drum & Splash, which is held yearly at Four Quarters Farm. There are two nice swimming holes at Four Quarters Farm, and the place is pretty much open to any and every bored deity you could imagine. I've never spent much time there before, but I do like to drum. I've got a great drum. It's an old wash pan that belonged to my grandma, that I found out in the woods. I beat on it with a wooden spoon. If the other drummers object to this heirloom musical instrument, I will take my talents to the perimeter.
Basically, I'm going home without going home.
Floppy and his band of merry golden vultures will be going with me as a Sacred Thunderbird escort. I hope the turkey vultures up on Polish Mountain will be polite. It turns out that Floppy is sensitive about his name. He's like me: very easily vexed. I think we are going to be great friends.
Oh yeah, one last thing. That reprehensible moron developer who wanted to turn 1,000 acres of mountain land into a town of 14,000 people is starting to make noise again. Therefore, also on the agenda is some earnest petitioning to Cloacina for her continued protection of that pristine watershed.
I will try to check in with all three of you readers on July 6. Until then, have a safe and happy 4th of July. Be careful with those fireworks!
PS: Heir and I spent two hours chasing a yellow budgie around Cooper River Park this afternoon. I think I taught him how to fly with my overzealous pursuit. We left him some bird food and a pamphlet entitled "Surviving Hawk Attacks: A Bird's Guide to Public Safety." I borrowed it from Decibel's library.
Friday, June 29, 2012
Pushing Off the Rock with Floppy
Well, of course there are many rock bottoms in a life, and none of us miss getting a few. I'm rebounding from one right now, and today was maybe the beginning of a better time.
It started this morning when five golden vultures arrived at my house and perched on my Dodge Neon. The leader said his name was "Floppy."
EXHIBIT A: FLOPPY
So I said, "Okay, birds, we are going to a Druid Ritual at Bodine Field in Wharton State Forest. Any of you know where that is?"
They all did, of course. So I trusted them to draw me an excellent set of instructions and then fly ahead to make sure I was on the right course.
Everything was going swell until we got into spitting distance of Wharton State Forest. Then the bunch of them got scent of some big ol' deer that got winged and not flattened. They flew off and left me stranded with no map and vague directions that I copied down because my printer doesn't work.
I got all turned around and finally wound up at the Jersey Shore. (When you live in New Jersey, you quickly learn that all roads lead to the Jersey Shore eventually.) I've got a bitchin' great season beach pass for Ventnor/Margate, which is just south of Atlantic City. I went for a swim.
So, after being battered and flattened myself by the rough surf, I sprawled in my beach chair and told my sad story to a couple of Bonaparte gulls. Trust me, reader, seagulls are not vultures. Those gulls were eyeballing the goodies I meant to take to Druid Grove but was instead trying not to get sand in while I ate them myself. No self-respecting vulture would eat a slice of ciabatta bread. I had to beat the gulls away with a towel.
On my way home on the Atlantic City Expressway, I discovered that Floppy and his four comrades were following my car. We wound up back here at Chateau Johnson. I flung open the trash cans for them, because those doggone vultures were more of a lift than any other bored gods could ever be.
To all who sent me vultures, especially Floppy, blessed be.
It started this morning when five golden vultures arrived at my house and perched on my Dodge Neon. The leader said his name was "Floppy."
EXHIBIT A: FLOPPY
So I said, "Okay, birds, we are going to a Druid Ritual at Bodine Field in Wharton State Forest. Any of you know where that is?"
They all did, of course. So I trusted them to draw me an excellent set of instructions and then fly ahead to make sure I was on the right course.
Everything was going swell until we got into spitting distance of Wharton State Forest. Then the bunch of them got scent of some big ol' deer that got winged and not flattened. They flew off and left me stranded with no map and vague directions that I copied down because my printer doesn't work.
I got all turned around and finally wound up at the Jersey Shore. (When you live in New Jersey, you quickly learn that all roads lead to the Jersey Shore eventually.) I've got a bitchin' great season beach pass for Ventnor/Margate, which is just south of Atlantic City. I went for a swim.
So, after being battered and flattened myself by the rough surf, I sprawled in my beach chair and told my sad story to a couple of Bonaparte gulls. Trust me, reader, seagulls are not vultures. Those gulls were eyeballing the goodies I meant to take to Druid Grove but was instead trying not to get sand in while I ate them myself. No self-respecting vulture would eat a slice of ciabatta bread. I had to beat the gulls away with a towel.
On my way home on the Atlantic City Expressway, I discovered that Floppy and his four comrades were following my car. We wound up back here at Chateau Johnson. I flung open the trash cans for them, because those doggone vultures were more of a lift than any other bored gods could ever be.
To all who sent me vultures, especially Floppy, blessed be.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Rock Bottom
I'm at Rock Bottom.
It's not a place, it's a state of mind.
My life has been pretty blessed in terms of Rock Bottoms. The last one I had was 1977. At that time, all I needed to do was get the hell out of Dodge. Which I did, and I slept three days straight at my family farm.
This time I have obligations to other people, and I'm not doing a very good job of performing them. My daughters have had to parent me, because at Rock Bottom it's hard to interact well with others.
I've actually been sliding toward Rock Bottom for three weeks, but I still didn't see the rock at the bottom. Being an optimist, I've been trying to weasel my way out of it and look on the bright side.
Sometimes there just isn't a bright side.
You know who you find at Rock Bottom? All the scary, horrific bored deities who want to devour your soul and put you in some dreary afterworld. Can't even give these Types a graham cracker or a glass of iced tea. I don't want to hang with Them. It's not how I roll.
Therefore I will try to claw my way out of Rock Bottom by petitioning bored deities of every sort to come to my emotional rescue.
Send me vultures. Send me many vultures.
It's not a place, it's a state of mind.
My life has been pretty blessed in terms of Rock Bottoms. The last one I had was 1977. At that time, all I needed to do was get the hell out of Dodge. Which I did, and I slept three days straight at my family farm.
This time I have obligations to other people, and I'm not doing a very good job of performing them. My daughters have had to parent me, because at Rock Bottom it's hard to interact well with others.
I've actually been sliding toward Rock Bottom for three weeks, but I still didn't see the rock at the bottom. Being an optimist, I've been trying to weasel my way out of it and look on the bright side.
Sometimes there just isn't a bright side.
You know who you find at Rock Bottom? All the scary, horrific bored deities who want to devour your soul and put you in some dreary afterworld. Can't even give these Types a graham cracker or a glass of iced tea. I don't want to hang with Them. It's not how I roll.
Therefore I will try to claw my way out of Rock Bottom by petitioning bored deities of every sort to come to my emotional rescue.
Send me vultures. Send me many vultures.
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